Stranger by the Lake (26 page)

“You had an appointment with him yesterday,” I said in a flat voice. “Craig really
did
just go to the stationer's.”

He nodded grimly. “Kirk's getting impatient—quite eager to buy the papers and get back to Texas. I couldn't have stalled him off much longer, but now I won't have to stall. It was jolly nice of you to have found the manuscripts for us—I was beginning to believe they'd been destroyed after all.”

“It won't work,” I said. “How do you intend—Stephen Kirk may be naive, but he's not dishonest. He wouldn't touch those papers if he thought there was anything——”

“I'm way ahead of you,” Paul said, growing impatient. “You see, your aunt trusts me completely. She made out her will—you're to inherit everything, incidentally—and named me as her executor. When she dies I'll have every legal right to dispose of the papers any way I see fit. The sale will be quite legitimate.”

“You—you plan to kill Aunt Agatha,” I whispered.

“Naturally. It will be quite painless and relatively simple. I'll give her a single injection that will cause complete muscular paralysis as soon as it's introduced into the bloodstream. Nothing clumsy like poison, mind you. Curare, if you want the technical name for it. It's the same substance natives in the Amazon jungles used to dip their arrows in. She'll die with all the symptoms of heart failure, and, of course, as I'll sign the death certificate myself——”

“The pills she's been taking——”

“Harmless,” he said. “Cause fatigue, slow down the blood a bit. I thought it would look better for her to drag around for a week or so before the fatal stroke.”

“You intended to kill me, too.”

“But of course, Susan. What other recourse do I have? You must die. Actually, it'll fit together beautifully. You'll have an accident, and the shock of your death will bring on Agatha's stroke. I like things neat.”

He spoke in a lazy matter-of-fact voice, and his nonchalant manner was far more terrifying than menace would have been. He was calm, relaxed, his handsome, craggy face composed, a thoughtful look in his dark brown eyes. He took his hat off and flung it on the dressing table, running his fingers through the damp golden-bronze locks. The long, loose black raincoat made him seem even larger. He glanced at me as though I were a bothersome insect, and I realized he was as amoral as Vanessa.

“Why?” I whispered. “Why are you doing this? You've got everything, a good practice, respect——”

“You think I like being a general practitioner in a town like this? I used to have an elaborate practice in London, very plush, very profitable, but there was an unfortunate incident—a Peer's daughter hemorrhaged after an abortion I performed. She recovered, fortunately, and everything was hushed up. Must avoid scandal, the tabloids, that sort of thing, but I had to leave London, under a cloud. No one knew any of the details, luckily, and I was able to keep my license. I came to Gordonville. It was like being buried alive after what I was. accustomed to.”

“You took everyone in,” I said. “The people in this town worship you. My aunt——”

“Agatha is a fool, just like all the others. People believe what they want to believe. They wanted to believe I was some kind of benevolent humanitarian, solid and trustworthy, giving up a rich practice to serve where I was needed. I hated it, from the first.”

He smiled bitterly, the big mouth stretching wide. “I've built up an impeccable reputation. No one would believe me capable of anything as heinous as murder. I've been what they wanted—I'm a damn good doctor, by the way, and I've done a lot of good here. The local folks will be sorry to see me leave.”

“You can't possibly get away with this, Paul. You must see that.”

“On the contrary, I have every reason to believe I will get away with it. You'll have an accident, the shock will kill your aunt—no one would think of connecting Charlie's death with any of this. Three murders, and I'll go scot free. I imagine Vanessa and I will go to South America,” he said reflectively, nodding his head gently. “Yes, that's where we'll go, and there'll be a million dollars to tide us over.”

I was in a trance, stunned. I seemed to be standing a long way off, watching all this through the wrong end of a telescope. It was happening to someone else, a girl in a leaf-brown dress and dark gold shoes who was so terrified she could feel nothing, an emotionless shell. This man intended to kill me, and I merely stared at him, unbelieving. I didn't scream. I didn't try to escape. I knew that he was insane, with the same cold, methodical madness that had possessed the Nazi doctors who had performed terrible experiments in the concentration camps. Human life meant nothing to Paul Matthews.

The room was cozy and warm, snug and comfortable with the fire burning in a gray marble fireplace and the oil lamps shedding golden light over the cocoa-brown carpets. A girl in a chic green dress was crumpled up on the floor, and a man in a dripping black raincoat stood rubbing the water from his hair and calmly contemplating a murder. I was numb, and I closed my eyes, willing the nightmare to end and reality to return. This couldn't be happening.

“Are you ready?” Paul asked. He was actually smiling.

My skin prickled. Blood seemed to rush to my head. I stepped back, the numbness gone now, animal panic in its place.

“You—you can't do this,” I stammered. “You can't just go around killing people.”

“Can't I?” he asked reasonably, lifting one eyebrow slightly.

“You're insane!”

“Is that what you choose to think? You're mistaken, my dear. I'm not insane, I'm strong. The strong have an obligation to overcome the weak, to dominate. But we've talked long enough. The time has come to settle things. You're going to have an accident, Susan. You can fight and struggle, or you can make it easy for yourself. Either way, you die.”

He spoke wearily, as though trying to reason with a stubborn child. He stood a few feet away from me, his powerful bulk blocking the way. I knew I couldn't possibly elude him. I backed away slowly, looking around frantically for some sort of weapon. The gun … the gun was under the bed. If I could get around to the other side of the bed and crouch down, perhaps I could reach it before.…

“The gun wasn't loaded,” Paul said, impatient. He seemed to be reading my mind. “There's no escape, Susan.”

I dashed toward the door. He seized my arm, jerking it out and twisting it behind my back with one savage motion. He clamped his free hand over my mouth, pulling me up against him. I struggled violently. He gave my arm a brutal thrust. I almost passed out from the pain. Paul forced me out the door, into the hall, towards the east wing, holding me securely and pushing me ahead of him.

“I should have killed you this afternoon,” he said amiably, conversationally. “I wanted to. You don't know how near death you were as you sat there with that trusting look on your face. It took a great deal of control not to kill you then and there, but that would have been far too risky. I had to comfort myself with the knowledge that you would die later on.”

We were in the east wing now. Flurries of cold, clammy air stirred in the dark hallway, and the sour smell of dust and decay was heavy. I could hear Earl whining in one of the rooms further down the hall. Paul relaxed his grip on my arm and cautiously moved his hand away from my mouth, curling his arm around my throat in a firm but painless stranglehold.

“There—that's better,” he said. “If you try to scream, Susan, I'll break your neck now. You understand? Good. I thought you might like to chat a while before the end.”

“Where are you taking me?” I whispered hoarsely.

“This wing has been closed up for a long time,” he replied. “Everything has gone to ruin, I'm afraid, including a staircase at the end of the hall. The bannister's broken, the steps themselves rotten. You're going to tumble down them——”

“Just like Charlie,” I said.

He chuckled quietly. “Right. It was a pleasure killing Charlie. He was such a meddlesome fool. No great loss to the world, Charlie. He seemed to have somewhat different views—struggled violently until I finally broke his neck and tossed him down the stairs. I found the struggle rather stimulating.”

We passed the room where Earl was locked up. He barked viciously, and I could hear his paws thudding against the door. It was almost as though he could sense what was happening. He barked and snarled, throwing himself against the heavy oak door. Paul pushed me on down the hall, through the black and gray shadows that cascaded down walls covered with torn, tattered beige wallpaper. Our footsteps echoed loudly, reverberating against the walls and sounding like a whole troop of people marching down the hall, and from outside came the sounds of the storm: thunder rumbling, rain lashing, wind blowing against the windows and making them rattle.

“Clever of me to send the dogs over,” Paul commented. “They would keep out genuine intruders, and at the same time they wouldn't bother me when I came to the house every night to join Vanessa.”

“Althea has seen you down by the lake.”

“She couldn't possibly have known it was me. She saw an intruder, but no one listens to her. Althea will be easy to handle. I'll simply commit her to an institution where she can babble all she likes. You wonder why I was by the lake? Simple. I can't very well drive up in front of the house, so I take a side road that winds through the woods down near the other side of the lake. I park under the trees, then walk along the lake to the path and on up to the back door. Vanessa leaves it unlocked for me every night.”

“You—you were down there tonight, weren't you?”

“True. I wondered what on earth you were doing. When you came out of the mausoleum with the box, I knew, but I couldn't do anything about it. There was Earl, you see. He's a fickle beast—seems to have developed an inordinate fondness for you. He was quite overjoyed to see me in the woods, but he would have torn me to shreds if I'd laid a hand on you.”

“You followed me.”

“Quite true. Thoughtless of you to lock the door behind you when you came in. I had to force the lock with a penknife—well, my dear, here we are.”

There was a wide foyer at the end of the hall. Heavy draperies were pulled across three windows but flashes of brilliant silver-blue light came in through the cracks, illuminating the scene with bizarre light. In back of us was a solid wall, the windows on our left, and directly in front was a narrow, rickety staircase, the railing splintered, several of the steps completely broken away.

Paul released me. I turned around quickly, facing him, my back to the staircase. In the weird flickering light I could see his face: heavy, ponderous, dark eyes flat, the mouth twisted down at one corner. My heart was pounding violently, my throat dry, my body paralyzed with fear. Paul held his hands up, examining them as he might examine them before an operation. I watched with horrified fascination, edging back step by step.

“You understand,” he said quietly, “I must break your neck first. I will try to do it neatly, quickly. You'll have just one moment of exquisite pain, and then it will all be over.”

“No,” I whispered. “You can't.”

He raised his hands, fingers cupped in air, and I screamed. I kept on screaming, and I saw the look of surprise on Paul's face. Then there was another noise, horrible, horrible, and I saw him grimace with pain, and then Paul was screaming, too. I stumbled against the windows, half enveloped by the mothy draperies, watching in sheer terror as Earl attacked his master, tearing clothes, tearing muscle, blood spurting, screams splitting the air. Paul broke loose. He backed away from the animal. Earl leaped forward, and Paul disappeared down the staircase. There was an explosion of sound as wood collapsed, and one last scream that seemed to hang in the air long afterwards.

Earl whined, looking up at me with mournful eyes. I could hardly see through the haze of tears. Two men were standing across from me. One of them struck a match and lit an oil lamp. The light spluttered and spread, and I saw Craig's face, mouth set, eyes grim. Peter Jacobs stood beside him, his face a study in shock.

“Peter,” I whispered. “You came——”

“Righto, old girl. I talked with your fellow this morning.”

“It was Peter on the phone.”

“That's right,” Craig said. “When he found out who Vanessa Shaw was, he didn't waste any time. She was involved in a murder in London. I happened to answer the phone this morning. He told me to keep everything as normal as possible, not to alarm anyone, not to arouse suspicion.”

“I got here an hour ago,” Peter said. “We've been looking all over the place for you, upstairs and down. We just finished searching the basement and decided to come up to the attics. We found the woman unconscious, heard the dog barking.”

“I let him out of the room,” Craig said.

Peter stepped over to the staircase and peered down. He shuddered. I knew that Paul was dead. Craig stared at me, and I straightened up, wanting desperately to feel his arms around me.

“I found the papers,” I said. “They were in the mausoleum.”

“And you went down there all by yourself.”

“Of course. I wanted to——”

He shook his head in disgust. I tried another approach.

“I—I think I'm going to faint,” I said.

“I doubt seriously that you'll faint,” Craig said, “and if you think I'm going to put my arms around you after what that dog just did you're out of your bloody mind.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Stephen Kirk grinned a sheepish grin, his very blue eyes full of amusement, his short sandy blond hair tousled by the breeze. He wore hand-tooled brown boots, an elegantly tailored beige raw silk suit, and a wide brown tie. Tall and lanky, boyish charm turned on full blast, he lowered his lids and gave me a look that would have melted the strongest feminine heart. We had just left Aunt Agatha on the terrace and were standing on the drive. Stephen's gleaming white Cadillac was parked in front of the house.