Stranger by the Lake (24 page)

There was an odor of grease and rust and gasoline, and my shoes clattered on the concrete floor as I stepped between the Bentley and the bright red XKE Jaguar. It was very dark, but I could see the toolbox standing in front of the cars, the flashlight hanging over it. I took the flashlight down and switched it on. The battery was weak, and there was only a thin, feeble ray of yellow light, but it was enough. Taking a hammer and a large screwdriver out of the toolbox, I left the garage, pulling the door down, holding the bottom rim to keep it from squeaking so loudly.

There was no holding Earl back now. He danced and darted about, elated at the freedom to romp and splash in the puddles of water. He dashed on in back of the house, but I moved a bit more cautiously. It wasn't likely that anyone could see me, but if Craig Stanton chanced to get up and stroll to the library windows he would be certain to spot me. I kept close to the side of the house, passing the drawing room windows, hesitating, passing the library windows with one quick glance. Craig was still at his desk, intently working with his shoulders hunched over the papers. I hurried on to the lawns in back, relieved now, no longer worried.

I walked rapidly down the sloping lawns towards the trees. The ground was muddy and my shoes were soon caked with mud. They would be ruined but that was a trivial thing. This whole business had been hell on shoes, I reflected: one pair broken, one pair discarded, this pair turning soggy and limp. Earl scampered around in circles ahead of me, tearing up turfs of wet grass. The sky was so low that it seemed I could reach up and touch it. Thunder made a quiet rumble in the distance, and brief streaks of lightning made occasional silver flashes. A soft violet haze hung in the air as dusk approached and shadows thickened.

The excitement I had felt earlier hadn't abated one jot. I still felt it surging through me, urging me on. I was actually on my way to find the Gordon manuscripts. In a short while I would hold them in my hands. It was a staggering thought. Walking along the edge of the trees, I hunted for the path leading down to the lake, finally locating it and moving quickly into the densely shadowed woods. Earl scurried about in the bushes nearby, and a bird cried out shrilly. Limbs made a thick canopy over the path, protecting it from rain, and the ground was hard packed, only slightly damp. On either side the trees were tall dark sentinels, gleaming black and wet in the faint light. I could barely see my way, but I didn't want to switch on the flashlight just yet. I would need it inside the mausoleum, and the battery was so weak I feared it might give out.

I could see the lake ahead now. Mists hung low, swirling over the wet black surface of the water, moving like ghosts engaged in a lilting waltz. Water lapped at the shore, wind whistled over the surface, and the sound of whispers filled the air, accompanied by the drip-drip of rain pattering off limbs. I called Earl, but he was nowhere near. I wondered where he had gone. I called again, and there was an answering bark from far away. I heard him crashing through the woods, and suddenly there was silence. He had stopped abruptly. There was one loud bark, then a growl, then silence sharply underlined by the whispers. I heard the growl again, followed by a feeble yip.

I wasn't afraid, only bewildered. Nevertheless, I would have felt much better had Earl been beside me instead of roaming through the woods. He had probably seen a rabbit, I thought. Yes, a rabbit, or perhaps a bird. The bark had not alarmed me, but the growl.… I called him a third time, my voice shrill. Night noises rustled in the trees, but there was no sound from the dog. He might have vanished. That curious yip … I couldn't let my imagination run away with me. There was a perfectly logical explanation for his conduct, yet I was unnerved.

I peered through the trees. I could see glistening black trunks and a multitude of limbs, the faintest light penetrating. Far away there was movement, a glimmer, something barely visible. My heart was pounding now. I couldn't prevent it. I squinted, peering through the trees at that movement. It was slick, dark, like … like a black raincoat, like a man in a raincoat moving slowly through the woods. I closed my eyes and opened them again. The moving black glimmer was gone, and I realized that it had been a trick of light and shadow, augmented by an overactive imagination. Earl came prancing nonchalantly down the path. I scolded him harshly, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was to stay by my side and ignore all rabbits. He licked my hand, abject.

The brief moment of fear had shaken me, shattering my confidence, and I moved on toward the lake with much less assurance than I had felt before. Stepping out of the woods, I walked along the shoreline toward the mausoleum. The mists had already spread damp, wavering tendrils of white over the ground, a thin, shifting veil of white that made it impossible to see five feet ahead of me. A frog croaked. Earl barked, leaping off into the mist, rejoining me a moment later with a frisky swagger.

I could see the mausoleum ahead now. By some curious accident of wind and atmosphere the mists had parted, leaving a small clearing free of the drifting veils, and the mausoleum stood out, black silk shimmering in the faint light, sides billowing softly, so real, not marble at all. I stood several yards away, strangely hesitant. The tent pole seemed to sway, the black marble ropes growing taut. I shivered for no apparent reason. Earl stood beside me, his silver body rigid, all playfulness gone now. It was almost as though he could sense that this was a place for the dead.

“There's nothing to be afraid of,” I told him, realizing that I was speaking more to reassure myself than for Earl's benefit.

I stood just inside the clearing, the mists making a constantly moving white wall on three sides, the trees forming the other wall, dark trunks solid. Charlie had stood over there, I remembered and wished I hadn't. He had been watching me. I could almost feel those eyes on me now, and the sensation was upsetting. Charlie was dead … but someone was watching me. One of the tree trunks moved slightly, gleaming, and there was a white oval, a face with a hat brim pulled down over the forehead. The man in the raincoat was watching me … absurd, of course. Earl would have barked had there been anyone nearby. I shook my head, frowning. This wouldn't do at all. I was too attuned to the atmosphere and far too imaginative for my own good. I stepped over to the mausoleum, putting all sinister fancies aside. Earl hung back, not wanting to come any closer.

I didn't blame him. I didn't particularly relish the idea of entering that bizarre black tent, but I knew I had to. There were dead people inside, but they were dead, moldering in their crypts, and … this line of thought was hardly encouraging. Switching on the flashlight, I directed the weak beam on the entrance. One flap of the tent was lifted slightly and held in place by a black marble rope. The opening was barely two feet wide and not more than five feet high. I could get inside easily enough, but I still hesitated. Tight closed places, particularly tight closed places with dead people inside … was it worth it?

I admonished myself severely and stepped through the opening, bumping my head on the edge. I muttered something more descriptive than dignified and rubbed my head, directing the feeble beam of light over the walls. The interior was smooth polished brick painted in red and white stripes, carrying out the tent effect, but the paint had peeled and faded and the walls were festooned with large brown moisture stains. To my left were two bronze plaques indicating the resting places of Sir Robert and Arabella, and directly across from them was a small black marble bench. The stench of mildew and moisture and decay was overwhelming, a sharp sour smell that assailed the nostrils with potent force.

Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and stretched across the corners, swaying in and out as the air stirred, and dust was everywhere. I heard a tiny squeak and a rustling noise and, switching the beam of light in the direction of the sound, saw a fat gray rat scurrying across the floor. I tried not to shudder. The sound of whispers from the lake penetrated inside, and the noise echoed, as though the place were full of invisible beings urgently warning me to leave, to leave, to leave right now. It took great will power not to obey those ghostly instructions. I controlled myself, bracing my shoulders and pressing my mouth in a resolute line. I had come this far. I certainly didn't intend to give up now.

Taking out the pouch and removing the paper, I sat down on the bench and studied the intricate blueprint, holding the flashlight over it so that all the light spilled directly down. Arabella had marked everything clearly and distinctly, and the X indicated that the papers would be on the same side as the crypts, in the far corner. I took the flashlight and studied the spot, running my hands over the brick. I coughed as clouds of ancient dust flurried in the air. The bricks were neatly mortared together, and the wall looked quite solid, but as I leaned forward to study it I noticed that there was a section about four feet up from the floor where the mortar was a slightly different color, more yellow than gray. That was where I would start prying the bricks loose.

I rested the flashlight on the edge of the bench, the flickering beam directed toward the corner, and, with hammer and screwdriver, started to chip away the mortar. It was hard work. The mortar was old and as hard as rock, cracking away in small particles. The noise of my efforts echoed in the small chamber, sounding frightfully loud. The screwdriver slipped and scratched, the hammer clanged, chips of mortar fell to the floor, and dust swirled in the air. I coughed, squinting my eyes. The thin beam of light seemed to grow weaker and weaker, now no more than a faint suggestion of yellow illumination. After what seemed hours I finally managed to wedge one brick out of place.

I stuck my hand in the opening. There was nothing but space behind it, and I knew my calculation had been correct. I worked all the more eagerly, scraping away the mortar, prying the bricks loose. A second brick was removed, a third. I had to pause for a moment to catch my breath. Dust was thick in the air. A gust of wind flurried into the chamber through the entrance, blowing a cobweb into my face. I gasped, wiping the sticky strands away with repugnance. The whispers seemed to rise and swell, growing more urgent. I could hear Earl whimpering outside. After a moment I went back to work, forgetting everything else in my zeal. I banged against the wall with the hammer, impatient now, not even bothering to use the screwdriver. Bricks crumbled into pieces and fell to the floor with loud thumps and soon I had knocked away all of them not mortared against solid wall.

Bringing the flashlight over, I beamed it into the opening. There was a cache three feet deep, two feet high, and the pale yellow light shone on a rusty metal box the size of an overnight case. I caught my breath, so excited I could only stand and stare, speculating on the contents of that box. The Gordon manuscripts, I thought, awed by the sight. I knew now what the people at Malahide Castle had felt when they first discovered the Boswell papers. I took the box out reverently and set it on the marble bench. A small padlock held the lid securely fastened. I was examining this lock when the flashlight gave a final violent flicker and went out, casting the chamber into absolute darkness.

The walls seemed to loom closer, closing in, while the whispers grew louder, taunting. I was stunned, terrified by the sudden black darkness, the sound, the smell. I was painfully aware of Sir Robert and Arabella in their crypts, and it seemed I could hear them breathing, stirring, protesting my intrusion. Earl barked outside, and I could hear him running around in circles. The fetid atmosphere inside the chamber seemed to swirl angrily. I clutched the box and stumbled toward the entrance, my flesh icy cold. Bumping my head again, I stepped outside, panting heavily, and the fresh air was like ambrosia. Earl gave joyous leaps, licking my face with reckless abandon.

“There, there,” I said. “Everything's fine. The light just went out—have you been missing me? Down! That's quite enough for now, fellow. What were you barking at?”

I stood in front of the mausoleum for a moment, catching my breath. I had felt a moment of sheer panic there in the darkness, but it was gone now and I felt only relief. The mists had closed in, wavering white tendrils floating a few inches from the ground, creating a surrealistic effect. The mausoleum seemed to vanish, black sides billowing as the mists closed over them. The camel's bell tinkled, a ghostly sound, but I knew it was merely a trick of the wind.

I started back along the shoreline, Earl moving sedately beside me. The water lapped at the shore and several frogs croaked, but the whispers weren't nearly as loud as they had been inside the chamber. It was raining quietly, gentle drops pattering down from a sky grayblack now, the moon a prisoner behind swollen clouds. Holding the box tightly I located the pathway and turned into the woods, wet dark trees on either side.

I felt someone watching me, but I knew now that that was caused by my own nervous fancy. Footsteps sounded in the bushes, quite loud, very near, but they were merely the echo of my own footsteps. Nevertheless, I was relieved to get out of the woods and start up the lawns toward the house. I could see Dower House far away, sheltered by the oak trees, a light burning downstairs. I wondered if Althea was using her binoculars tonight. If so, she was bound to see me. Earl ran on ahead of me, leaping up on the back porch and shaking raindrops from his body.

The back door was unlocked. Careless of Mary, I thought, but lucky for me. It would save me a trip around the house. I let Earl in and followed him into the kitchen, closing the door and shoving the bolt in place. The remnants of a fire burned in the kitchen fireplace, hot golden-orange coals crackling behind the screen and shedding enough light to reveal large oak cabinets and a drainboard cluttered with dishes. Down the hall from the kitchen the narrow staircase led upstairs, and I hurried up, reaching the hallway just outside my bedroom door. Minutes later I was in my room, drying Earl off with a fluffy bath towel.