Room Beneath the Stairs (13 page)

“I'd love to see them.”

“And so you shall,” she replied, unbolting the door. “Now don't be too long in coming to see me again. I hate to admit it, but I
do
get rather lonely now and then. If you see Judy, tell her I have a new book for her. It's delicious, all about a perfectly
smashing
axe murder—”

She closed the door behind me. As I went down the curving staircase I could hear the loud clicking of bolts being shoved into place. I knew now exactly how Alice felt on her trip to Wonderland. Carlotta Brandon was a magnificent fraud. She was a lonely old woman whose life had been a series of heartaches and disappointments, and her studied eccentricities were merely a ploy to get attention. Perhaps she
was
a bit mad; but the entire visit, on her part, had been one long performance, carefully played for the best effect on her audience of one.

“Isn't she a corker?” Judy inquired when I encountered her downstairs. “In good form today, she is. I 'spect she took you in good and proper.”

“I was—rather overwhelmed,” I admitted.

“She's a caution, her. Has a heart of gold, actually. I don't pay any attention to her shenanigans.”

“Has my husband returned from the village yet?” I asked.

“Not yet, ma'am.”

Judy went on about her work, and I wandered outside. It was a glorious day, sun spangled, the sky a clear blue-white canopy arching overhead. The air was laced with a salty tang, and as I walked down the front steps I could hear the crash of waves, a churning, sloshing sound that was a constant background to my thoughts. After I had crossed the drive, the bowling green was directly in front of me, the rectangular lawn beautifully clipped and as smooth as emerald velvet, surrounded by tall evergreens that cast long purplish-black shadows. I stepped onto the green to examine it more closely. Flecks of sunlight danced on the grass, shadows moving as a gentle breeze caused the trees to sway.

The bowling green was obviously ornamental, for there were no signs of its ever having been used. I started to pass on and examine the gardens, and then I noticed the small marble slab at the base of one of the trees. There was something carved on it. The letters were so tiny that I had to kneel to read them. There was one word: Henrietta. I suddenly realized that this was a gravestone, that I was probably kneeling on a grave. I stood up very quickly, startled. What a peculiar place for a grave, I thought. Who was Henrietta? An infant, perhaps? The stone was so small I wouldn't have noticed it had I not been studying the green so closely.

Another mystery, however minor. I strolled through the gardens. The artificial flowers were so exquisitely wrought that it was difficult to believe they weren't real: violets delicate and frail, roses lush with velvety petals that seemed about to drop. I moved along the paths, passing the pond with floating red lilies, a fine mist from the fountain spraying me as I passed. I tried to concentrate on the beauty around me, but it was impossible. My mind was plagued with questions. Why had Grey gone down to the village so early this morning? Why was Burke so hostile, Helen so cold, Evan so mocking? Why did Carlotta stay locked up in her room with a rifle? Was it merely eccentricity, or was there another reason?

Preoccupied, I had left the gardens before I knew it. I loved to walk, and the woods looked inviting, soft needle-strewn paths winding cool and shady beneath the towering trees. Sunlight sifted through the branches and dappled the ground with bits of flickering gold. I needed the exercise. I needed to walk and walk until I was too tired to think. Birds warbled lustily, branches rustled, pine needles crunched noisily beneath my feet. I could smell the heady scent of resin mixed with the odors of decaying wood and rotting leaf mold.

The house was far behind me now. The ground grew rockier, the path steeper. Without understanding why, I turned, moving in another direction. Through the branches, to my right, I now caught glimpses of sea and sky.

There was a curious feeling of
déjà vu
. I walked a bit farther, then stopped. The woods were dark, green brown, filled with shadows. The sea roared, the sound strangely sinister heard here in the dim thickness of trees and brush. I was listening for something else, and I had done it before. I had stood here in this spot, listening, and I had been very frightened. Of course. Thirteen years ago. Instinctively I had come the way Grey and I had come on that distant day. The woods ended a few yards ahead, and there was a steep incline with jagged gray-black rocks. I moved on, and in two or three minutes I was standing at the top of the incline, staring down at the huge, humped black boulders on the dark side of the island. There was the same dim purple glow created by shadows and lack of direct sunlight, the same pools between the rocks, the same waves lashing against the larger boulders.

Carefully I climbed down the incline, holding on to rock and root, eventually reaching the beach below with its labyrinth of huge rocks as black as tar, gleaming with wetness. What a wild, barbaric spot, I thought, as rugged and treacherous as it must have been when pirates roamed over the island. Yet there was beauty, a savage grandeur untouched by civilization. I moved around the rocks, staring into the shallow pools, trying to avoid the cascades of spray. I felt so small here, so insignificant. Climbing around the final boulder as large as a house, I reached the narrow cove and stood staring at the dark opening in the side of the cliff.

Time seemed to melt away and vanish in a haze. Carolyn Brandon in her slacks and sweater vanished, and I was eleven years old again, a child with mousy-brown braids and enormous eyes, all arms and legs, standing beside a handsome young Adonis of thirteen in striped jersey and trousers bleached bone white. In many ways, that day had been the most important day in my life, and every detail of it came back to me now. I remembered the anguish of my loneliness, the joy that filled me when I found a friend in the moody little boy with his battered rowboat. My awkwardness, my insecurity, all of it came rushing back, and I was that girl in the faded blue dress. I remembered the trip across, the walk through the woods, the fright we had had when Grey heard something in the brush. He had played pirate in the caves, I recalled, and I could see the darkness, the burst of flame as he struck a match. I could smell the torch burning, see the light flickering over the dark, damp walls. I could feel my fear, taste it in my throat. I saw the chamber where we had stood together, the rusty chains and manacles, the bloodstained stone where the little girl had been murdered. I could feel Grey's arms holding me, hear his voice telling me not to be afraid. It was all vivid, the girl more alive than the woman of twenty-four, the day momentarily more real than the present.

Remember
, an inner voice whispered.
The answer is there. The answer to everything is there, in memory, waiting to be heard
.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” he yelled.

I whirled around, my pulses leaping with shock and alarm at this sudden intrusion. He was standing a few yards away, clad in tight black trousers and a bulky black turtleneck sweater. His ebony hair was wind-blown, spilling over his forehead. He stared at me with glowering brown eyes, his wide mouth turned down in a violent grimace. He stalked over to me and seized my arm roughly, jerking me toward him.

“Answer me!”

“What's
wrong
with you?” I protested loudly. “You almost scared me to death! What—”

“You could have broken your bloody neck!”

“How?” I asked reasonably.

“On the
rocks
, you idiot!”

“Oh, come now—”

“What if you had
fallen?
This place isn't safe!”

“You needn't get hysterical about it,” I said.

Evan seethed, raging silently, and then he released my arm and with the toe of his shoe kicked at a small stone. It sailed into the water, landing with a loud plunk. I felt invigorated, outraged by his conduct; delighted, too. He jammed his hands into his pockets and stared at me with less violence, merely disgusted now. I met his gaze calmly, waiting for his next comment.

“Judy told me you'd gone out for a walk, and I thought I'd join you. I'd been cooped up in the office all morning long. I couldn't find you anywhere. I called. I searched through the woods. I thought you'd gotten lost! Then I remembered the caves—”

“Very perceptive of you,” I remarked.

“This is precisely the kind of wild stunt I'd expect of you. That incline is treacherous. The rocks are slippery as hell. You could have lost your footing!”

“I don't know why you should be so concerned, Mr. Porter. That would have solved all your problems.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“I mean if I had broken my bloody neck, as you so succinctly put it, then you could have married Grey off to the right woman.”

“You
are
a fool. Come on, let's get back.”

“I'm not ready just yet. You go on ahead.”

“Come
on!
” he barked, seizing my arm again.

We exchanged not a word as we scrambled back through the labyrinth of boulders and pools. He held my arm firmly, pulling me along none too gently, and when we reached the incline and I stared up at it from below, I saw what he had been talking about. It
did
look dangerous, although I hadn't given a thought to it on the way down. Grimacing, giving an occasional rude grunt, Evan started up, still holding on to my arm and pointing to sturdy footholds for my benefit. In a matter of minutes we were standing on the bluff. I was a bit breathless, and my cheeks were flushed. Evan gave me another disgusted look, let go of my arm and then marched briskly into the woods. I followed meekly. His pace was much too fast. I was soon lagging far behind.

“Hurry up!” he shouted, slumping against a tree trunk some distance ahead. His arms were folded across his chest, and his attitude epitomized impatience and disgust. When I reached him, he arched a dark eyebrow and sighed wearily.

“You've got dirt on your cheek,” he said, wiping it off with a rough gesture. “Your hair's all tangled, too.”

“You're not such an appetizing sight yourself!”

Angrily I brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes. Evan stared at me with a disturbing intensity, his deep brown eyes glowing. In his all-black outfit, with his wind-blown hair, humped nose and wide mouth, he looked like a dangerous Parisian apache, a curiously attractive thug who would as soon commit murder as light a cigarette. Strangely enough, I felt safer, more secure than I had felt since coming to the island.

“Were you really worried about me?” I asked quietly.

He nodded curtly.

“Why should you care what happens to me?”

“I don't relish seeing anyone plunge to death on the rocks,” he drawled. “Not even you,” he added thoughtfully.

I was outraged by his choice of words. “You phrase it so nicely!” I snapped, flushing.

“Anger becomes you,” he said.

“I think you're detestable!”

He seemed to think this amusing. A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.

“I—if I were a man I'd knock you down!”

“You're not, fortunately. You're a very attractive woman. Grey has all the luck, alas. If I'd met you first, he wouldn't have had a chance, I promise.”

“You must be insane. If you think I'd so much as look at—”

“Oh, I'm an ugly bastard, I know, but a lot of women find that fascinating. I may not have Grey's charm, but I do all right in that department. Quite a few women have—”

“I'm not at all interested in your conquests, Mr. Porter. They've been many and varied, I'm sure, but—”

“They have,” he interrupted.

“—but I can assure you I find you thoroughly—”

“Oh, shut up,” he said pleasantly. “Come along, and don't dawdle!”

We trudged through the woods without speaking. Evan seemed to be in a much better mood. Hands crammed in trouser pockets, shoulders hunched, he strolled leisurely, crushing twigs and pine needles underfoot. The woods thinned, the long green tunnels widening, growing lighter as pale yellow rays of sunlight slanted through the boughs overhead. As we neared the gardens he stopped, waiting for me to catch up. We walked on through the gardens side by side. He seemed relaxed, almost contented, and I felt calmer, too. The antagonism between us had vanished.

“I met Carlotta this morning,” I remarked.

“Indeed?”

“She's remarkable.”

“She's a ham,” he said. “Decided on her role and plays it to the hilt. She's very shrewd, actually, formidably intelligent. Her mind may wander now and then, and she may be a bit foggy at times, but—don't be fooled. She knows exactly what she's doing, always.”

“She seemed to be—afraid of something.”

“That's part of her act. The old girl loves to dramatize herself.”

“Why does she stay in the tower?”

“Stubbornness, I suspect, and spite. She knows it upsets my mother. Besides, she's quite happy with her parcels and her books and her various projects.”

“Projects?”

“There've been dozens of them. First it was letters. She wrote to all the newspapers, complaining about everything under the sun. Signed her own name. Drove Mother wild. Then she took to decorating cigar boxes with sea shells and paste, sold them by mail, built up a pretty big business until she grew bored. She tried her hand at writing—mystery novels, I believe. Wore out three typewriters, never sold a thing. Then there was flower arranging and yoga and ceramics and heaven knows what else. She's always got some project afoot. Now she's threatening to breed spaniels.”

As we reached the bowling green, I remembered the gravestone. “Evan,” I asked, unconsciously using his first name, “who was Henrietta?”

“Henrietta?” He seemed puzzled.

“There's a marble stone—”