Stranger by the Lake (22 page)

Aunt Aga ha talked merrily as we had breakfast. I was preoccupied and paid little attention to her chatter. Half an hour later I left her snuggled up with her copy of
Gaudy Night
and started downstairs. Mary met me at the corner of the upstairs hall.

“There you are,” she sighed. “I was just on my way to get you.”

“Has my call come?” I asked eagerly.

“No, it's the old woman—the one who tipples! She came bursting into the kitchen and said for me to come get you. Everyone giving orders, as though I had two pair of legs! She said for you to come over to Dower House as soon as you could.”

Wondering what Althea wanted, I walked on down the hall. Rays of sunlight gilded the dark wainscoting, burnishing it a soft silver, and the garnet carpets looked rich in this light. Had Althea seen something else? I wondered. It must be something important, or she wouldn't have unlocked her door and come over to Gordonwood.

Craig Stanton was talking on the telephone in the main hall as I came downstairs. I paused at the foot of the stairs, my hand resting on the bannister. He was wearing jeans and the bulky white sweater he had worn day before yesterday when he had let me into the house. Gripping the instrument angrily, he scowled, eyebrows lowered. He was immersed in the conversation and unaware of my presence.

“You learned what? Yes, yes, I see.”

He stood listening, his shoulders hunched forward, locks of rich brown hair spilling over his forehead. His large hand gripped the telephone with such fierceness that I felt sure it would snap.

“What? When?” he barked. “But, damnit, this is—I know, I know. I understand, but——” He frowned, glaring at the wall. “You can't get here any sooner? We have to act
now
, while—sure, I can handle things, but the girl——”

He looked up and saw me standing at the foot of the stairs and hung up the phone abruptly without even finishing his sentence. I tilted my chin at a haughty angle. Craig sauntered over, and when I started to move past him he seized my arm.

“Eavesdropping another of your habits?” he growled.

“As a matter of fact it is,” I said airily. “I've overheard some very interesting things these past few days.”

“What do you mean by that? How long were you standing there? How much did you——” His blue eyes were dark with suspicion, his jaw thrust out. His fingers were gripping my arm savagely.

“I didn't overhear anything,” I said innocently. “I just this minute came downstairs. Was there something I should have heard?”

“I don't believe you.”

“You seem terribly upset, Mr. Stanton. I wonder why.”

“You heard nothing?”

“Nothing at all,” I retorted lightly, looking at him with a cool and level gaze. He stood directly in front of me, blocking my way. The sleeves of his white sweater were pushed up over his forearms, and the bulky knit clung loosely to his chest.

“You're hurting me,” I said.

He released my arm. For a long moment we stood staring at each other, his long body very close. I wore an expression of bland innocence, not at all intimidated by him. Craig finally lifted his shoulders in a shrug and seemed to relax. He stepped back, hooking his thumbs in the corners of his pockets and tilting his head to one side.

“Sorry,” he said in a smooth voice. “I didn't mean to be brutal. I'm rather tense. That was—uh—my publisher. He wants to come down and look over the chapters I've done. We had an argument about it. Insistent chap. Told him I'd bring the chapters to London in a few days, but he wouldn't be put off.”

He told the lie with great aplomb. He looked very satisfied with himself, convinced I believed him.

“You understand how these things are,” he continued. “We authors get riled up easily, particularly when it's something pertaining to our work.”

“I understand perfectly,” I replied, charming. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” There was a slight edge to his voice.

“For a stroll. It's a beautiful day.”

“It's drizzling. You might catch cold.”

“I'll risk it.”

“I thought we might spend the day together,” he said pleasantly. “We could look for the manuscripts, perhaps. Your aunt and I intended to start in the attics today. Perhaps you and I could go up together—I'd like you to be with me so I could—uh—keep an eye on you. You disappeared yesterday afternoon. I was worried.”

“Were you?”

“You seem prone to—be where you shouldn't be,” he said. “First the maze, then down by the lake at midnight. When Mildred said you weren't in your room I imagined all sorts of things. You stick close by me today, and my mind will be at ease. I'll watch after you.”

“I don't need anyone to watch after me,” I replied.

“Don't you?” he said quietly. He lifted one eyebrow, his blue eyes suddenly hard.

“Of course not,” I said.

“I think you may,” Craig told me. His voice was no longer pleasant. “You're entirely too inquisitive.”

I moved past him toward the door without replying, and Craig made no attempt to stop me. Once outside, I breathed a sigh of relief. The encounter had upset me far more than I cared to admit. His words had contained a subtle, veiled threat, and I knew I couldn't carry on alone. Not anymore. It had been foolhardy of me to think I could play girl detective. I had to do something, find help. Peter hadn't called, and, besides, he was far away in London. I stood in the gardens for a moment, the fine, silvery drizzle stinging my cheeks. I was afraid.

Althea unlocked the door for me. She was wearing a loose purple robe, and her blazing red curls were wrapped around large tin curlers, giving her a crazily comic appearance. Her face was very grave, and for once there was no odor of gin. She was completely sober, though highly agitated, fluttering about like a plump, nervous bird. Seizing my hand, she led me into the littered room. Her gray-green eyes were full of apprehension.

“I saw them again last night,” she began abruptly. “He was wearing the raincoat, walking towards the house from the lake. She stepped out of the shadows to meet him. They went into the house together.”

“What time was this?”

“Around six thirty,” she said breathlessly. “If it hadn't been pouring down rain I could have gotten a good look at 'em. Everything was blurry and gray. They went into the house through the back door, and I didn't see 'em again for ever so long—until——”

She paused dramatically and stood looking at me with her hands on her hips. “You're not going to believe this,” she said, “but there was someone on the
roof
tops! I couldn't tell if it was him or her or whoever, but I saw someone moving around up there.”

“I believe you,” I said in a flat voice.

“What are we going to do?” she asked. “This has gone too far. Something terrible is going on.”

“You're right, Althea. I—do you have a telephone?”

“Over there on the desk, behind those papers. Who are you going to call? The police? Aggie will have six fits, but—yes, you've got to. I should have called them myself a long time ago——”

I placed a long distance call to London. Althea hovered about nervously as I waited for Scotland Yard to answer. I intended to tell Peter everything and insist that he come down immediately. He would know what to do. He wouldn't be quite so cavalier about my suspicions when he found out what was going on. It seemed an eternity before I finally got his secretary on the line. She calmly informed me that he was out of the office and wouldn't be back in today. I hung up, bitterly disappointed.

“That was Scotland Yard,” Althea whispered, her eyes wide.

I nodded. Peter had failed me. He had probably forgotten all about my call. Althea looked incredulous, and I found it highly ironic that my one ally should be this ludicrous old woman in purple robe and hair curlers.

“Scotland Yard,” she said. “I never dreamed—do you think it's
that
serious, Susan? I suppose so. I suppose—yes, of course. If Aggie had only listened to me——”

I stood looking out the window, oblivious to Althea's clucking. There was no one I could turn to, and I knew I couldn't face Craig Stanton again without giving myself away. Someone had tried to kill me. Someone had left a grotesque warning at the door of my bedroom. I couldn't be calm and casual. The full realization of all that had happened struck me, perhaps for the first time. The delayed reaction I had been expecting hit me with full force, leaving me weak. This was real. A murder had been committed. Another had been attempted. I had been so blithe, so foolish. I couldn't keep this to myself any longer. But there was no one to turn to.…

“What are we going to do?” Althea asked shakily.

“I don't know——” I began, and then I suddenly realized that there was someone I could turn to after all. I wondered why I hadn't thought of him from the very first.

“I'm going to see Dr. Matthews,” I said. “He'll help us.”

“Oh, dear—I don't know. He wouldn't believe what
I
said.”

“He'll believe me.”

“Do you think it's wise? I mean, maybe we're jumping to conclusions. Perhaps we should just wait and see.”

“Althea, someone tried to kill me yesterday.”

“What!”

“Someone locked me up in the attic, in a tiny room, leaving me to die. If I hadn't broken a window and climbed out——”

“It was
you
on the roofs,” she said, her face pasty white.

“It was,” I replied. “You see now why I have to tell someone else.”

Althea didn't bother to answer. She dashed over to the table, grabbed a bottle of gin, and poured a drink with trembling hands. She gulped it down in one mighty swallow and busily poured another. “To think I was plannin' to stay sober,” she muttered, plump cheeks beginning to flush. “Not now I'm not!” She was tossing down the second drink as I left her.

It started to rain as I drove into Gordonville. I had to pull over to the side of the road and put the top up on the Bentley. Fortunately, I had left the keys in it yesterday and hadn't had to return to Gordonwood after leaving Althea. The rain came down in torrents as I drove down one of the side streets. Paul's office was located in a small pink brick building shaded by an immense oak. I parked the car in front and dashed inside, slamming the door and startling the lanky receptionist who sat behind a small gray desk. She asked if I had an appointment while I rubbed water off my hair. When I said no she looked highly disapproving and told me to sit down.

I had to wait quite a while. There were two brown leather sofas and a coffee table littered with back issues of
Punch
and medical magazines, all of them battered. A plump, worried-looking woman in a printed crepe dress sat across from me, limp strands of auburn hair slipping over her temples. A very fat little boy sat beside her, licking a lollipop and casting nasty looks at me.

A buzzer sounded on the receptionist's desk and she told the boy to go on in. He clutched his lollipop and waddled to the door of the inner office and opened it, turning to give me a final sneer. The woman in crepe wrung her hands for the next twenty minutes while I listened to the rain pounding on the roof and tried to contain my impatience. The door of the inner office finally opened and Paul came out, one large hand grasping the boy by the scruff of his neck, the other holding a solemn-looking paper. The woman in crepe jumped up, expecting the worst.

“Johnny!” she exclaimed fervently.

“He took my lollipop away from me!” Johnny cried. “He said I was too
fat!
”

“Much too fat,” Paul said jovially. “He's perfectly all right, Bessie. Nothing wrong with him a strict diet won't cure. I have one here. I want you to put him on it immediately.”

He handed her the paper and turned to speak to the receptionist. Johnny and his mother left, and I stood up. The receptionist said something to Paul and he turned around, seeing me for the first time.

“Susan,” he said, his handsome, craggy face registering surprise. “What brings you here in this weather?”

“I need to talk to you,” I said. “It—it's rather important. Can you spare the time?”

“Surely,” he replied. “Johnny was my last patient for the day. Come on in.”

He led me down a hall and into a small sitting room in back, offering me a chair. I shook my head, nervous now, wondering how I was going to begin. Paul looked solid and impressive in his crisp white smock, a stethoscope hanging around his neck. His golden-bronze hair was thick and untidy, his dark brown eyes full of concern. He sensed my uneasiness and gave me a reassuring smile, the wide, sensual mouth turning up at the corners. I felt safe with him, secure, and just looking into those solemn eyes made me feel much better.

“Now what's this all about?” he inquired, his voice friendly but firm. “You look like you're about to fly apart. What's bothering you?”

“You—you're going to find this hard to believe,” I said.

“Suppose you let me be the judge of that.”

“I hardly know where to begin.”

Paul folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, his face stern and professional-looking. I fumbled around for words and finally started talking. I told him everything that had happened, beginning at the beginning, ending with the episode at Dower House not more than an hour ago. Paul nodded once or twice, looking very grave, but he didn't interrupt me. When I finished he shook his head slowly from side to side, heaving his chest.

“Who else have you told this to?” he asked.

“No one. I didn't give Peter any details—he would have laughed. He doesn't take me seriously.”

“It's hard to take this seriously,” Paul said solemnly. “It's a pretty fantastic story. You'll have to admit that.”