Lady Sativa (11 page)

“There seem to be many curious facets to this affair,” Germaine said “I’ve known Carl and Hannah for many years and yet I never knew that she’d suffered a breakdown.”

“Nor I,” Hazer poured himself a glass of wine. “Could it be that she tried shock treatment for a condition of Lycanthropy? And it’s very strange that Carl never told anyone about his experiments.”

If the papers the police found in Hannah’s room are genuine, then it’s bloody simple to understand why Carl wanted to keep things quiet,” Maxwell smiled faintly under his sunglasses.

“Why is that Andersen?” There was a slight edge in Orient’s voice.

“Didn’t you
read
what he wrote?” Maxwell asked scornfully. “I think it’s rather obvious that if your wife has raving delusions that she’s an animal every full moon, you’d want to keep it a secret.”

“Perhaps you’re jumping to conclusions,” Orient said, trying to keep his dislike for Maxwell out of his tone. “Carl did not say that Hannah was suffering from Lycanthropy.”

“... unburden Hannah of the awful secret she must bear,” Maxwell mock-recited. “I happen to have a photographic memory, Orient, and that’s what was written on the page marked 345.”

“Excellent memory, but poor logic,” Orient said calmly. “You’re just guessing.”

“Am I?” Maxwell looked around the table. “Then why didn’t Hannah tell Neilson about the cabinet in the library right away? And she seemed rather reluctant to decipher Carl’s message to Lily. If you recall, it was Neilson who reminded her about the three pictures in the frame. And he was the one who found the key.”

“All inconclusive evidence.”

“I agree with Owen.” Sybelle lifted her wine glass to the light and squinted at it. “And none of this conversation is going to help poor Hannah. If any of this is true, then she needs psychiatric care, not a prison.”

“I’m afraid there’s no way to help Hannah until we hear what she has to say in the morning,” Germaine said softly. “It’s up to her now.”

After dinner, Orient left the others in the process of forming a bridge game. As he climbed the stairs, he saw Anthony standing near the library door in deep conversation with the fat-faced detective.

When he reached his room, he stretched out on the bed and tried to piece together what had happened since the séance. It was difficult to believe that a frail woman like Hannah could rip a man apart. He knew that homicidal maniacs, including Lycanthropic Schizophrenics, had been known to indulge in cannibalism. It supported the delusion that they’d been transformed into flesh-hunting beasts. Still it was hard for him to imagine Hannah reverting to such a state.

He wondered what she meant to tell the detectives.

His mind drifted back to Lily: the smooth warmth of her skin, the way their minds had touched while making love.

He heard a soft sound at the door.

He swung his legs to the floor, went to the door, and listened. There was no sound. He looked down and saw” a piece of blue letter paper just under the door and picked it up. It was a typewritten note.

“Meet me in the churchyard behind house. Near the biggest tree. Use the door in the pantry next to kitchen. Something important you should know. Need your help. Please do not betray me. HB.”

Orient studied the last two letters. Hannah Bestman, He debated whether he should show the note to Sybelle.

Or Germaine. Not wise, he decided Either he gave it to the police or he went out to meet Hannah. It was stupid to involve anyone else. And it would lessen his chances of slipping out of the house undetected If, that is, he was foolish enough to compound his earlier lie with a charge of accessory after the fact. He remembered Hannah, huddled like a broken doll in Sybelle’s arms, and decided to risk it.

He changed into a thick wool turtleneck and checked his watch. Ten o’clock. Everyone would still be up. The cook, however, would be finished with her work in the kitchen. If the hall was clear, this was probably the best hour to move around the house, before everyone retired His presence wouldn’t be suspicious. There was a good chance that he could slip back in time to bid everyone good night.

He went to the door, opened it, and stepped into the hall. He descended the stairs and headed for the kitchen, trying to look as if he’d just decided to have a late-night snack. The uniformed policeman, sitting at the front door reading a magazine, didn’t look up as he passed. He heard the sounds of people talking in the dining room and went past the door quickly. He headed for, the far door behind the dining room and entered the darkened kitchen. A glowing red bulb, under the still-hot coffee urn, gave off enough light to enable Orient to avoid a large table and find the door to the pantry.

It was too dark even to see table shapes inside the small room, but he decided against lighting a match. Instead, he felt around the wall until he located a doorknob. When he opened the door, a cold blast of wet air scraped the warmth off his nose and ears and he realized it was raining outside.

He stood in the protection of the doorway for a few moments until his eyes got used to the darkness. The lights from the dining room gave off a faint glow that was quickly lost in the drizzling blackness. He closed the door behind him and started walking along the side of the house toward the back. The damp, muddy ground quickly soaked through his shoes and chilled his feet.

He stopped at the corner of the house and peered across at the barely visible rise of trees a hundred: yards away. If he crossed the open space in front of him, there was a possibility he’d be seen. He retreated a few paces then crossed the short space between the house and a line of high bushes that extended into the trees. He could hear his heart thumping as he walked across the dimly lit area and entered the shadows.

Once inside the protective concealment of the bushes he moved swiftly around their perimeter until he reached the grove directly behind the house.

As he started up the steep rise, he saw a shape at the base of a tree and hesitated. He took a step closer and recognized the jutting outline of a stone cross leaning at an odd angle to the ground.

He walked slowly through the cemetery, straining to see through the wind-driven rain that sent rivulets of water running down his forehead and into his eyes.

He stopped under a tree and huddled against its trunk. Finding the churchyard had been easy, but locating the biggest tree in the dense, rain-swept darkness would be difficult. From where he stood, he could make out branch-shredded patches of light below him, coming from the house on the other side of the trees. They looked warm and cozy. He jammed his hands in his pockets and peered through the shadows. A single, insistent question jangled through his mind. Why had Hannah asked him, almost a complete stranger, to help her? He squinted through the rain and considered going back to the house. May as well give it a try as long as you’re already wet, he thought.

As his vision adjusted to the murkiness, he saw that above him, looming like a massive guardian beside a square structure, was a gnarled, fat-trunked tree. Thick roots spilled out of its bulging base like a nest of just-loosed snakes scrambling down to repel intruders.

Orient took his hands out of his pockets and edged toward the tree. As he neared, he saw that the building it protected was a mausoleum.

A twig cracked behind him. He stopped and looked around. There was no one—only the hiss of the wind-lashed leaves above him. Small drops of water wriggled under the damp neck of his sweater.

He took a few more steps, listening carefully as he continued slowly up the rise toward the immense tree. As he approached, he saw someone standing just behind the trunk. He stepped into the shadow of a large bush and waited.

For a moment, he thought that he’d been misled by a moving branch, but then he glimpsed a dull flash of skin near the dark stone wall of the mausoleum.

The blood was racing through his pulse as he stepped over the protruding roots to the edge of the building.

Hannah was standing between the wall and the tree trunk, her pale skin barely visible beneath a black shawl that covered her head. Her hand went to her mouth. “What do you want?” she whispered.

“You sent me a note.” He reached for the folded piece of paper in his pocket and took a step nearer.

The shawl fell away revealing a face contorted with fear. Her lips were twisted away from her teeth and her eyes glittered intensely. “No,” she said shrilly, rushing at him, “don’t. Go back.”

Orient’s fingers had just closed around the note when a bone-numbing blow on his chest sent him sprawling into the mud. Someone fell heavily on top of him, crushing the wind from his belly and pinning his hand in his pocket. Hannah’s blurred face appeared next to his, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open.

Her screams exploded against his ear and a gloved hand closed over his throat. Instinctively, he jabbed his elbow back. Something like a wet slap shocked across his forearm and he realized he couldn’t move his fingers. He jabbed again and rolled, trying to dislodge the weight holding him down and free his other arm, but the hand ground his face into the cold gummy dirt. A rush of hot, damp breath caressed the skin of his unprotected throat.

There was a hollow pop and the pressing weight on his body suddenly lifted. He raised his head and saw a flash of light. There was another pop as he rolled over.

Hannah pushed herself up to her knees, half-turned, and fell across his legs.

7

Orient heard the sounds of running footsteps and men yelling in Swedish. Then the bright electric rays of flashlights cut through the shadows and illuminated Hannah’s face.

She was staring in open-mouthed terror at the gnarled roots that dug into the wet earth near her face. Her chin was thrust forward in the mud and there was a small blue hole in her temple.

The flashlights bobbed closer, blinding him. He tried to shield his eyes with his arm and found that it was paralyzed from the elbow down. Something warm and oily filled his palm. He looked down and saw that it was blood.

“You disobeyed my orders,” someone said.

Orient recognized the tenor voice of the lanky detective. “I received a message,” he grunted as he got to his feet.

“I sent no message.” The detective shined the light on Orient’s arm. “Were you shot?”

He pulled back the sticky, ragged sleeve of his sweater. His forearm was streaming blood from four deep gashes that raked his skin open to the wrist. He tried to flex his fingers. They moved slightly. “Looks like I was stabbed. Or bitten.”

“Tell me about the message you received,” the detective said, lifting his flashlight to Orient’s face.

He turned away from the glare and reached for the paper in his pocket.

“Hold it.”

Orient heard the soft warning and froze. The detective moved the light to the gun in his hand. “Take it out of your pocket very slowly, doctor,” he said.

He took the paper between two fingers and held it up to the light. The detective took it.

Another beam crossed Orient’s eyes. “She’s dead,” a voice growled in Swedish.

“Tell me what you were doing here, doctor,” the tenor voice asked patiently.

Orient shivered inside his wet clothes and gritted his teeth against the throbbing pain that was beginning to pulse through his wounded arm. “I received the note you have. I came out here and saw Hannah. Just as she spoke to me, I was attacked.”

“What did she say?”

“I think it was ‘go back’.”

“And then she attacked you?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know. It was very... confusing.”

Orient heard them speak softly and then one of the flashlights moved away, its beam sweeping the ground near the mausoleum.

“You were fortunate we were warned, doctor. Neilson wasn’t as lucky.”

“Warned?” Orient felt his face flush and the word was slurred.

The detective lowered his light. “You’d better come with me,” he said. “Someone should look at that arm.”

“Someone warned you this was... going to happen?” Orient managed, swaying slightly. He felt giddy.

“Anthony Bestman warned us that his sister-in-law was a homicidal maniac. We watched her leave the house and followed her to see what she would do. We also followed you when you left the house. We saw Hannah Bestman attack you and fired. Fortunately, we managed to hit the right person.”

“It’s... very dark,” Orient mumbled, remembering something, “hard... to see.”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps... someone else was here besides Hannah.”

“I’ve considered that possibility, doctor.” The detective waved his light impatiently. “My men are searching the courtyard now. Come.”

Orient followed him. When the flashlight beam passed Hannah’s body, Orient noticed a reddish smudge on her shawl. He bent over and saw that it was a smear of dark powder.

“Please come along, doctor,” the detective said “Yon m need medical attention.”

Orient straightened up and a wave of dizziness came over him. He stumbled after the detective toward the warm, distant lights of the house.

There were hundreds of questions to answer and countless forms to fill out over the next two days. At first Orient was confined to his room under guard, but after all the details had been examined and everyone’s statement taken, he was allowed to have visitors.