Jamintha (28 page)

And then, far behind me, there was a soft swoosh.

I tensed, waiting. Standing beneath the great chandelier, I waited for what seemed an eternity, but there was no repetition of the noise, and there was no sound of stealthy footsteps. Satisfied that no one crouched there in the darkness, I proceeded across the hall and turned down the long corridor that ran the length of the west side of the main house.

It had been a long time since I had come this way, it seemed. I had been at Danver Hall for less than two weeks. I had been upset by my first encounter with Brence, unaware that I was shortly to have another, even more dramatic encounter. It seemed so long ago, a lifetime ago. So much had happened since then. The man who had so arrogantly demolished me that morning now wanted me to be his chum. In my heart, I knew that I preferred his disdain to patronizing friendship.

Turning the corner, I saw the huge mahogany doors. They were locked. I pushed and shoved in vain, frustrated by this obstacle. I wasn't going back to my room empty-handed. I would get into the library even if I had to break these doors down. While this melodramatic determination was highly commendable, common sense told me that such a course would be virtually impossible. The doors were solid, hardened by age. A robust man in his prime could have battered against them with little result beyond fatigue. There was a simpler way to gain entry, and it took me but a moment to think of it. Leaning my head down, I pulled out one of the long hair pins that secured my braids in place.

The lock was old and rusty, and the task wasn't easy. The pin jammed, twisted and broke, making a loud grating noise. I pulled out another and inserted it into the hole, probing less vigorously, with a more delicate touch. After five minutes of scratching and scraping, there was a satisfying click and the heavy doors swung inward with a painful creaking.

The dust-covered shapes of furniture were like so many ghosts crouching in the dim semi-light, and the fetid odor of dust and rotting leather and yellowing paper seemed to make a physical assault. Moving to the center of the room, I stared up at the towering walls of decaying books. As I stood in the ruined room memories came flooding back. I had loved this room—the woodwork had shined with polish back then, the books new and inviting, the large bronze and red globe on its golden oak stand an intriguing toy. The galleries had been sturdy, reinforced with tall pillars since destroyed, and I had been fascinated by the hidden staircase winding up in the hollow tower. Many a rainy afternoon I had spent here, stretched out on the carpet in front of a roaring fire, turning through the picture books that were so plentiful. It had been my favorite room, and I had come here that night …

A little girl in a long flannel nightgown that trailed behind her, her cheeks streaked with tears, her hand clasping the heavy strand of diamonds that blazed like silver fire, like stars. She had come running into this room, her bare feet slapping against the carpet. She had gone over to that corner, pressed the near-invisible knob, started up that cold iron staircase curling up into the darkness … I could feel her panic now. I could feel her heart pounding, and I could hear her sobs as she climbed higher and higher. No, it was my own heart, and they were my own sobs … I stopped, halfway up the spiral staircase, in almost total darkness, just enough light coming through the tiny slit windows to give a vague outline of the staircase. I was stunned to find myself there. There were salty trails of wetness on my cheeks. I was tensed, waiting for the noise that failed to materialize: a loud, sharp explosion that I knew now had been a gun shot. There was no gun shot now, just the steady pad of footsteps crossing the floor of the library below.

Wiping the tears from my cheeks, gaining a shaky composure, I went on up the staircase. On the second landing, I groped for the knob and pressed it. The wall swung outward, revealing the shadowy, sagging gallery.

I moved very slowly, very carefully, each step cautiously placed on the warped, rotten floorboards. It wasn't going to tear away from the wall. I was certain of that. It had supported the weight of both of us that morning. No matter how it swayed, no matter how it creaked and protested, it would hold. I told myself that with great confidence. Nevertheless, I was absolutely terrified. I could feel the panic threatening. My throat was dry. My legs trembled. Waves of dizziness swept over me, and I leaned back against the wall of decaying books.
Don't look down, Jane. Don't look down
. But I couldn't help myself. Something compelled me to peer over the railing at the floor three stories below. So far down … so very far. I closed my eyes, realizing my folly. I must have been out of my mind, out of my mind …

There had been lamps burning that night, warm yellow light that burnished leather bindings and picked out gilt lettering. The floorboards had been sturdy beneath my bare feet as I scurried along in that absurdly long flannel nightgown. I had to hide the necklace. Mother told me to hide it. Uncle Charles wanted to steal it, and something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong. Mother had been crying as she rushed out into the hall, and those angry voices had shouted and raged in some distant room. “Charles will kill him! He has a gun!” she had cried, and I knew what that explosion had been. Uncle Charles had killed Daddy, and he wanted the necklace …

I forced myself to move. Leaning against the books, I edged my way along, inch by inch. There was the hole Brence had made, jagged splinters of wood hanging down, torn, shattered books surrounding it. The air was thick with dust, and every movement I made stirred up more. The platform sagged, creaking, seeming to pull away from the wall, but somehow I forced myself to go on.

Gibbon.
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
. I remembered that title, and I could see the books in my mind, a set of six, bound in tan and brown leather. Where? Further along. I could never locate them in this position, back against the wall. Steeling myself, I moved away from the books and closer to the railing so that I could read the titles as I went. A horrible tearing noise rent the air. The gallery tilted, the floor slanting down and out like the deck of a ship dipping in the water. The slant was no more than two inches, but it seemed I would surely slip and fall crashing against the fragile railing. It would snap in two like dry matchsticks. I would go hurtling through space … No, no, I mustn't think about it. I must remain calm. Steady. Weight balanced, no sudden movements.

The books were on the fourth shelf, their titles almost obscured by thick layers of dust. I had to bend down to pull them out, but they had been at shoulder height then … I pulled them out and hid the necklace behind them and pushed them back in place, and then I heard footsteps in the hall, running, high heels clattering on the parquet, and I knew it was my mother. She came rushing into the library, her long blonde curls spilling in every direction, the elegant black lace on her blue satin dinner gown torn, one sleeve of the gown ripped away. She pushed against the doors, trying to close them, but the doors flew back, knocking her down. He stood over her, his face contorted with fury. “Where is it!” he yelled, and she crawled away from him, on the carpet, cringing. He seized her arm and pulled her to her feet and struck her face, again, again, again. She was screaming now, and I was screaming, too, but they couldn't hear me. They didn't know I was there. “Tell mel” he shouted. Her face was bruised, her cheek bleeding, and he seized her throat and shook her. Her arms waved in the air and she fell to her knees and he was still shaking her. Mother was a rag doll, limp, and when he let go of her she dropped in a jumbled heap, her head at such a funny angle. I made no sound. I was still screaming, but the screams were all trapped inside. He stared down at her, and then he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder and took her away, and I stayed there all night, still screaming. I heard the low rumble. The house seemed to shake. There was a great crash, then another and another. It was morning when I crept down the staircase and back to my room, and when Uncle Charles came in looking grave and upset I just stared at him, wondering why he had come into my room instead of my mother, wondering what he was talking about, what accident …

I pulled the books off the shelf. They crumbled, bindings splitting, pages falling loose. Reaching into the space, I felt the hard stones and pulled them out. The necklace was heavy in my hands, the diamonds yellow with dust. I stared at it numbly, tears in my eyes. The gallery sagged again, and there was a splitting, ripping noise. I paid no attention. I looked at the cursed, dust-dimmed jewels in my hand, thinking of all the tragedy they had brought.

“You've found them,” Charles Danver said.

I turned very slowly and looked at him. He had only come a short way along the gallery, not more than ten feet, and he stood very still, his face white, a streak of dust across one cheek.

“Bring them to me, Jane,” he commanded.

“No,” I said calmly.

“If I have to come after them we'll both be killed. It won't hold the weight of both of us.”

“I'm not afraid,” I replied.

It was true. I wasn't afraid. I had just lived through a nightmare of stark terror, and it had left me numb. I gazed at Charles Danver with calm, level eyes, and I knew this wasn't really happening. This was just a continuation of the nightmare. Jane was far away. She was observing all this with cool objectivity. The girl who stood on the tilting gallery was someone else, a girl in a dream.

“You followed me,” I said.

He nodded. “I went directly to your room as soon as I came home. I had to find out how much Helene had told you. You were gone. I heard you walking down the back hall.”

“Where is Susie?”

“I've no idea. We're quite alone in the house.”

“You murdered Madame DuBois.”

“I broke her neck yesterday morning, a few minutes after I left you in the study. I had my arm crooked around her throat while she wrote the note. As soon as she finished I applied a bit more pressure. She struggled violently, the bitch. I'm afraid it was extremely painful for her.”

“You murdered my mother, too. I saw. I was here, in this room. I saw everything. I know what happened that night. You shot Daddy—”

“He was being very unreasonable. I shot him, yes. I didn't intend to murder Jeanne. I only meant to frighten her into telling me what she'd done with the diamonds. I got rather carried away—didn't know my own strength. She died on me—” He shook his head, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I had two bodies on my hands. I had to dispose of them some way. I dragged them into the west wing. I'd worked in a coal mine for a spell, knew all about dynamite, knew George kept some in a shed at the mill. It was quite simple. No one ever questioned the authenticity of the ‘accident.' People assumed the wing just collapsed.”

“She knew, though.”

“Helene? She was my accomplice—my willing slave. It wasn't difficult to persuade her to help me arrange the accident. She also provided my alibi. She testified I was in my own room in the east wing, fast asleep when the tragedy occurred. There were no other servants in the house that night, and Brence had gone chasing after some village lass, didn't come back until it was all over.”

“She helped you look for the necklace.”

“For eleven years. We finally decided it was buried somewhere in the rubble. I had to maintain my position at the mill. I couldn't be seen digging around in broad daylight. We searched at night.”

“You were there when I—”

“I hit you on the head with a rock,” he said simply.

“You sent for me because you thought—”

“I knew you'd lost any memory of Danver Hall. I hoped bringing you back would help you remember. I thought perhaps you might know something about the necklace. It was a gamble, but it's paid off, hasn't it? Bring it to me, Jane.”

“No.”

“I won't hurt you.”

“You'll have to come get it.”

“Be reasonable, Jane.”

I held up the necklace, dangling it. Even under the dust, even in that faint, fading light there was some glitter left. Charles Danver cursed as he took a few steps forward, his face tight with terror. There was another tearing noise. He flattened himself against the books, his chest heaving. His forehead was beaded with sweat. I smiled without knowing why. He began to edge along the wall, dust sprinkling down over his fine suit. Several books tumbled out of the shelves, falling apart as they hit the floor.

“You're very heavy,” I said calmly. “It'll probably give way any moment now.”

“Damn you!”

“The mighty Charles Danver is finally afraid.”

He ignored me. He had moved past the gaping hole now. He was perhaps twenty feet away from me. His face was the color of putty, and the corners of his mouth trembled. Flattened against the wall, his palms gripping the shelves, he slid along slowly. His breath came in heavy gasps. The gallery rocked and sagged, the tearing noise one continuous shriek now. He closed his eyes, halting abruptly, too terrified to go on. Several minutes passed as he tried to master his fear. I could almost see his strength returning. His tensed muscles relaxed. Color returned to his face. He turned his head to stare at me with eyes glowing with fierce determination.

“Tell me about Jamintha,” I said.

“You know her name?”

“I know everything about her. You were with her this afternoon.”

He frowned, puzzled by my knowledge. He was still flattened against the wall, storing up his strength.

“She wasn't there when I woke up,” he said, the frown deepening. “I don't know where she went. I came back here—”

“You love her,” I said.

“Finding the necklace has changed everything,” he said ponderously. “Brence can have the mill. I won't have to bother with it any longer. The diamonds—a fortune—” He was talking to himself now, looking into a future of staggering wealth. “I'm going to take her away from here. I may even marry her.”