Stranger by the Lake (23 page)

“I know it is,” I said calmly.

“Still——” He frowned, furrowing his brow. “I examined Charlie myself. It had every appearance of being an accidental death. There was no argument as far as Constable Clark was concerned. Just the same, something bothered me. I didn't pay too much attention to it at the time, but—there were no lights burning upstairs. I wondered why Charlie would have started downstairs in the dark. It seemed logical that he would have turned on the hall lights when he left his room. That's an irrelevant point, of course, but someone
could
have broken his neck and tossed him downstairs, putting the slipper on the stair——”

“I'm sure that's what happened. I
know
it is.”

Paul reached up to brush a golden-bronze lock from his forehead. His crisp white smock rustled. He toyed with the stethoscope, looking strong and solid, inspiring confidence. I felt much better after talking to Paul, as though a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders. He would help, and I felt sure he was quite capable of dealing with matters. He looked at me, one corner of his mouth turned down.

“Let's not be too hasty about things, Susan. We have to consider this from every angle.”

“Even if Charlie's death was an accident, there was nothing accidental about what happened to me in the attics.”

“The door could have slammed shut, the bolt could have accidentally fallen into place. You say you heard someone, but it was pouring down rain. You say you saw someone, but it was dark, and the attics must have been a nest of shadows. You could have imagined it,”

“Paul, someone was there. I didn't imagine any of it. If I hadn't climbed out that window——” I paused, staring at him. “And what about the shrunken head? I didn't imagine
that
.”

Paul shook his head again, his brow still furrowed. He was finding it hard to accept my story. I could see that. His craggy face wore an expression of deep concentration, the brown eyes dark. He seemed to be pondering everything I had told him, examining every detail in his mind with a cold, unemotional analysis. Several minutes passed, and he finally straightened up and looked at me, his mouth a severe line.

“All right,” he said. “I'll buy it. It's improbable. I've never put much stock in those damned manuscripts, but if they exist, and if someone thought——” His face grew angry. “I've never liked that Stanton fellow. He took advantage of Agatha from the start, sucking up to her, using her. I distrusted him from the first.”

“What are we going to do, Paul?”

“I don't know,” he said. “The first thing I've got to do is go have a long talk with Constable Clark. I should think he'll find all this highly interesting. I don't know what kind of action he'll take, but—we'll do something, Susan. Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of this.”

“You don't know how relieved I am.”

Paul patted my shoulder and looked down into my eyes. He was so big, so sturdy. I could sense the strength in him, and those deep brown eyes were warm, full of understanding. Everything would be all right now. Paul would see to it.

“I suppose I'd better be getting back to Gordon-wood,” I said.

“I hate like hell to see you go back there, but—I suppose it's best. We don't want to arouse any suspicion. I imagine Clark and I will drive out to Gordonwood tonight to pay Mr. Stanton a visit, but if anything at all out of the ordinary happens before we get there, you call me. Call me right away. If I'm not at home, my landlady will know where to reach me.”

Paul walked to the front door with me. The receptionist was gone. The office was dim. It had stopped raining, but the sky still hung low, dark gray, filled with threatening clouds. Paul and I stood on the front steps for a moment, water pouring off the eaves with a monotonous patter. Out in front the Bentley glistened, dark and shining.

“You're sure you've told me everything?” he asked.

“I—I don't think I've left anything out,” I replied. Something was nagging me, some small, minor detail I seemed to have forgotten. Oh well, I thought, it can't be very important.

“You be careful,” he said gravely.

“I will be.”

“And—don't mention this visit to anyone, Susan, not even your aunt. I don't want her to be alarmed.”

“I won't, Paul. I—I'll see you later on?”

He nodded. “You can count on it.”

Paul opened the door of the Bentley for me. I drove away, confident that everything would soon be resolved. The country road was muddy, and the rain had denuded the dogwood trees of their blooms, pink and white blossoms scattered on the wet ground like shreds of silk. It was only after I turned through the graystone portals and onto the crushed-shell drive that I remembered what I had left out in my account to Paul. I hadn't told him about the small leather pouch I had found in the attic room and the curious paper it contained. I had forgotten all about it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Cook was leaving a lavish buffet in the dining room, Mary informed me, and everyone could help themselves. Cook was in a bad mood what with preparing all those trays and if a buffet wasn't satisfactory that was tough luck all around, servants were human beings. Pulling on her raincoat and wrapping a bright pink scarf around her hair, Mary said that the old lady was still in the room readin', and Mr. Craig was locked up in the library scribblin' away furiously, and the creep, Mildred, that is, was prowlin' around lookin' pitiful. Mildred would take a tray up to my aunt later on, Mary said, buckling the belt of her sleek black vinyl raincoat.

“And Cook 'n I are leaving now, if it's all the same with you, ma'am. It's been rainin' something awful and we want to get back to town before it starts again.”

“I'm sure that will be satisfactory, Mary,” I replied.

“Incidentally, them dogs looked pitifully sad out in the rain. I brought 'em in and let 'em stretch out in front of the fire in the kitchen, though Cook like to bust a gut. Fed and brushed 'em myself, though it ain't really my job. They're roamin' around the house somewhere now.”

“Fine, Mary.”

“Well, ta ta, then. We'll be off.”

It was shortly after four when I got back up to my room. Earl was sitting in front of the door, waiting for me. He gave yips of joy when he saw me coming down the hall. Through the French windows I could see the bleak soggy gray sky and the dark green dripping shrubs and, further away, the black trees that seemed to huddle together around the lake. Thunder rumbled in the distance, like drums rolling, and there were occasional flashes of lightning, brief streaks of silver. I closed the windows and drew the draperies shut and lit three oil lamps. The room was soon brilliant with cozy yellow-gold light.

“I wonder why I forgot about the pouch,” I said. Earl tilted his head to one side, looking very wise. “I suppose it's understandable. So much happened after I put it in my hip pocket that it just slipped my mind. Oh, stop looking so smart. You can't understand a word I'm saying.”

Earl looked offended and crawled under the bed, head and front paws sticking out, eyes alert with interest as I pulled the pouch out of the hip pocket of the slacks I had worn yesterday. Pushing the brushes and bottles to one side, I spread the piece of paper out on the dressing table and sat down to examine it. It seemed to be some kind of intricate geometrical design, with letters dotting it here and there. The paper was old and stiff, and the ink was violet. Arabella Gordon had had a fondness for violet ink, and there was no doubt in my mind that she had drawn this curious pattern. What was it, and why had it been so carefully preserved in its own leather pouch?

At the bottom of the page were nine words:
PART OF HIS LIFE
,
WITH
us
BOTH IN DEATH
. They made no sense whatsoever. I pulled the oil lamp nearer and peered down at the paper, my brow creased in puzzlement. I had a feeling that this was something very important, but its significance eluded me. The Victorians had been very fond of anagrams and word games, but this was neither. Dotting the squares and slanting lines of the pattern were several single letters:
E
,
S
,
W
,
A
,
R
,
R
,
X
,
P
,
I
,
N
,
w
,
G
,
G
. I made individual words from them:
SWING
,
WING
,
RING
,
SWAN
,
SWEAR
,
RIP
,
GRIP
, and so on, but that only confused me more. Ignoring the letters, I concentrated on the design itself. There was a central square, smaller oblong squares to the left, the whole crisscrossed with diagonal lines that made inverted v's. I was totally bewildered.

I must have studied the paper for an hour and a half, utterly frustrated. All the while my excitement mounted. This was important. It was a key. If only I could unravel it.… At first I had the wild idea that it was a map that would lead me to the Gordon manuscripts, but I finally had to discard it. This was no map. It was … it was almost like a blueprint, I thought, but if so, what did those words and letters mean? Thunder rumbled, and rain dripped from the eaves, plopping on the floor of the balcony. Earl crawled out from under the bed and rested his head on my feet, wanting attention. I bent down to scratch his ears, my mind filled with confusion. I had a feeling I was overlooking something obvious, something that should have been perfectly clear the minute I looked at the paper.

I stared at it again, and suddenly a fog seemed to lift in my mind. I had been so dense! It
was
perfectly clear. To the left of the large square were two oblong squares:
A
.
G
. in one of them,
R
.
G
.
R
.
I
.
P
. in the other. Arabella Gordon, Robert Gordon Rest In Peace.
S
.
W
.,
N
.
W
.—south wall, north wall,
E
.—entrance. In one corner, an
X
. I was staring at a hand-drawn blueprint of the mausoleum. The diagonal lines were meant to indicate the sloping roof of the tent, and the
X
… I was weak with excitement. I had discovered the hiding place of the Gordon manuscripts.

Sir Robert had designed the mausoleum himself. It had been completed a few months before his death, and he had rested there alone for twelve years before his wife joined him. She had burned his papers in a burst of Victorian prudery, but two of the manuscripts had been too personal, too meaningful, too much a part of the man who had composed them.
PART OF HIS LIFE
, she had written at the bottom of the page,
WITH US BOTH IN DEATH
.

Arabella had destroyed the other papers, yet she couldn't bring herself to destroy these particular manuscripts. She had realized their value, had realized, too, that the world wasn't ready for them, not the world of crinoline petticoats and stuffy parlors and repressed emotions. She had put them in the mausoleum, leaving behind this clue to their whereabouts, perhaps visualizing some future age in which they would be found and given the fair evaluation they deserved. She had died with her secret, and it had taken all this time for that secret to be discovered.

It was overwhelming. I could hardly contain my excitement. Reason told me to keep calm, be sensible, but I wasn't in a sensible mood. I knew I should stay in my room and wait for Paul to come with Constable Clark. The secret would keep a while longer. After everything was resolved, I could go down to the mausoleum and fetch the papers, in daylight, in safety. It was the only reasonable thing to do, but I couldn't be reasonable at a time like this, I had to see the papers. I couldn't just sit here and wait, not when I knew the papers were there in the mausoleum, waiting to be found. I would take Earl with me, and I would be very cautious.…

Slipping the paper back into the pouch, I slid the pouch in my pocket and told Earl to come along quietly. The manuscripts were probably in a secret cache, brickedin. I would need tools, I thought, remembering the toolbox I had seen in the garage. It was bound to contain a hammer, and I could use a screwdriver for a chisel. I crept quietly down the hall. Earl sensed my mood, and he crept along beside me, down on his haunches, finding this a jolly good game. I passed the door of Mildred's room. An edge of yellow light shone under the door. She was probably inside, reading or brooding about Aunt Agatha's treatment of her.

Turning the corner, I moved silently down the main upstairs hall. The windows were wet gray squares, dripping with slippery cobwebs of water and admitting little light. It would soon be night, but there had been a flashlight hanging on a peg in the garage, and I could use that. I moved down the staircase, Earl scooting along ahead, turning to give me conspiratorial glances. The library door was closed. I hesitated in front of it, finally stooping down to peek through the keyhole.

Craig Stanton was working at his desk, his face lined with concentration, hair tumbling over his forehead. He looked up, almost as if he could sense me watching. He stared at the door with a vacant look and then gave a heavy sigh, frowned and went back to work, a candelabra spilling wavering yellow light over his broad shoulders. Cautioning Earl to be silent, I went to the front door and opened it, shooing him outside, stepping out myself and pulling the door shut behind me.

Earl barked gleefully and capered around under the portico. I glared at him, and he hastily resumed his stealthy crouching position, deciding the game wasn't over yet. We moved toward the garage. The air was chilly, laced with dampness, and there were puddles of water. Earl paused by one of the shrubs to perform a most undignified function, looking up guiltily as he joined me in front of the garage. I caught hold of the handle, lifting the heavy door. It swung up with a loud, grating noise. Surely no one could have heard, I thought, stepping into the garage.