The Master of Phoenix Hall (15 page)

There were fresh footprints, heavy ones, pressed firmly into the hard, damp earth of the floor. The light was not good, but I could see the outlines of heavy boots, several perfect boot-shaped imprints on the floor. I knelt down to examine them, a little alarmed. I couldn't tell too much about them, but I knew that they should not be here. I felt the imprints, running my fingers over them. They were large and deep. Whoever had made them was a large man, heavy. I bit my lower lip, suddenly frightened. The cellar was almost dark, what light there was coming from the opened door gradually fading. The house was empty. I was alone. I thought about the crash we had heard that first night in Dower House. I remembered the noises I had imagined I heard last night, and I remembered the strange lights in the quarry. My heart began to pound, and for a moment I was paralyzed, unable to move from where I knelt.

Then I saw the large, wide rut, as though something heavy had been shoved or pulled across the floor. I stood up, relieved. How foolish of me to have been alarmed, I thought. Billy had probably been down here recently, fetching something for Nan, a jar of preserves, a bottle of pickles, and had had to move a trunk in order to get to it. This cellar seemed to bring out the worst in me, causing me to imagine all sorts of dark, mysterious things. The place was dark and dirty and had a nasty odor, but that was no reason for me to let it work on my nerves and cause these ugly fancies. I got the spade and went upstairs, resolving to give the cellar a thorough cleaning and forget all this foolishness.

Nan and Billy came in a little later, both of them radiant with good nature, poking each other playfully and laughing at some private joke. Billy's eye was almost healed now, the flesh about it a light mauve. Ever since his fight with Dereck Miller he and Nan had seemed closer and didn't quarrel nearly so much. Nan was not so bossy, and I thought Billy walked with an extra swing to his shoulders. He seemed more possessive and masterful, and Nan seemed to delight in this change in their relationship. I asked Billy if he had been down in the cellar recently.

“I took some trunks and things down a couple of weeks ago,” he said.

“But you haven't been down since then—perhaps to get a jar of pickles or something?”

“No, Miss Angela, I sure haven't.”

“Why do you ask?” Nan inquired, her face full of curiosity.

“No—no reason. I merely wondered,” I said.

I left them in the kitchen. Nan had decided that she wanted to bake some fresh bread and she was in a flurry of taking down bowls, sifting the flour, having Billy stoke the stove and light the oven. I went into the parlor and took up my basket of sewing. Billy hadn't been in the cellar in two weeks. Someone had been there. Who? How did they get in? What in the world were they doing down there? No, I told myself, you can't start this. There is a logical explanation for the footprints. They might be old ones. The light wasn't good. You imagined they were fresh. Billy is the only one who has been down there. They are his footprints. They have to be his. I tried to reason with myself and still the alarm I felt growing in my mind. Nothing was wrong in the cellar. I kept telling myself that, and after a while I was convinced that it was true.

May was almost over now as Nan and I sat in the parlor, two weeks after I had discovered the footprints in the cellar. I had never told Nan about them, not wanting her to be alarmed, and I had almost forgotten them myself with all the activity that had taken place since. Roderick Mellory's ball would be held quite soon now. I had received an engraved invitation with a little note at the bottom in his handwriting. It said he looked forward to seeing me in the dress he had sent. I was not going to give him that satisfaction. I had ordered bolts of red and amethyst colored satin, and Nan and I were going to make the gown I would wear. It would not be as spectacular as the one Roderick Mellory had sent, but I had a Partisan pattern I would make it by, and I felt it would be as lovely in its way and far more suitable.

Nan sat in the chair with her lap covered with the richly textured material. She was sewing fine, tiny stitches in the bodice. A roll of glossy amethyst velvet ribbon was curled on the arm of the chair, a pair of scissors and a box of thread at her feet. The tissue paper pieces of pattern were scattered about the floor. Peter sniffed at a piece before curling up on the hearth rug. Nan's canary was asleep in its cage. The late afternoon sun came through the window.

“Is Mr. Ingram coming by this afternoon?” Nan asked.

“I think so. He's going to bring a book I want to read.”

“He's been coming to see you an awful lot, Miss Angel.”

“Do you think so?” I asked, not really paying attention to her.

“Yes. Wait until he sees you in this gown. That will do it. It's going to be the most beautiful gown in the world, and when you wear it you'll look like a princess. Mr. Ingram will be helpless.”

“You're talking nonsense, Nan,” I replied. “Mr. Ingram and I are merely friends, nothing more.”

“This gown might help to change that. It's cut very low …”

“Be quiet,” I said. “I'm trying to concentrate.”

I sat at the old antique desk, trying to compose a letter in reply to one Mr. Patterson had sent to me. He had invested some of my money and it had already brought in a small profit. He wanted to know if I wanted the rest of it invested in the same manner. I knew little about such matters, but I was going to let him invest some more of the inherited money. I had no head for figures or business details, and it was difficult to write such a letter. My mind kept wandering. I looked down at the fine cream-colored paper, touched the watermark with my fingertip, stuck the nib of my pen in my mouth, thinking of how the letter should be worded. The surface of the desk was cluttered. There was a large green felt blotter, a black onyx pen set, a bronze paperweight in the shape of a lion's head. An oil lamp with a green glass shade helped me to see. I put the pen aside and folded up the paper in disgust, deciding to finish the letter at another time.

I opened one of the bottom drawers to put the pen away. As I tried to close it, it jammed. I pushed hard, trying to get it shut, but it would not move. I shoved hard with both hands and the drawer slammed. I heard a tiny click, as though a spring had been touched, and I was startled to see the bottom panel of the desk fly back and a small drawer slide out. I had not known of its existence, thinking the wood was solid there. I pulled the drawer open, extremely curious.

There were several notebooks with limp leather bindings, the pages rather yellowed. There was also a gun. It was a small pistol with a varnished wooden handle inlaid with pearl. I picked it up and examined it. It was very old, the metal nicked in a couple of places. It fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.

“Look, Nan,” I said. “A secret drawer. There are a lot of notebooks and this gun.”

“My goodness,” Nan said. “We went through that desk and we didn't see any of these things.”

“The drawer flew open when I shoved in the bottom one. There must be a spring that releases it.”

“I wonder who the gun belonged to?”

“It must have been my aunt's,” I replied. “Look, there's a key, too.”

The key was large and made of tarnished brass. It did not look like it would fit any of the doors at Dower House, and I wondered why my aunt had kept it here in this secret drawer with the gun and notebooks. “How strange,” I said, turning it over in my hand. “I wonder what it fits.” Nan leaned over my shoulder, intrigued by the secret drawer.

“Maybe the notebooks will give us a clue,” Nan said.

They were no help at all. I could not even read them. They were written in some kind of code. The pages were filled with tiny, closely packed letters that made no sense, although I could occasionally make out a date. It was all very mysterious. I could tell that the writing was in my aunt's hand, but I wondered what in the world she would have to write that she felt best put in code, and why would these notebooks be kept hidden in a secret drawer along with a gun and an old key? All this was very strange.

When Greg came that evening I showed him the notebooks. He looked at them for a long time, a frown on his face. He turned the pages slowly, examining the curious lettering. His gray-green eyes had a curious expression in them, and one corner of his mouth was turned down.

“Can you read any of it?” I asked.

“Not a word,” he replied.

“I can't imagine what they might contain, what Aunt Lucille possibly could have written that she would have wanted to put in code. Perhaps the notebooks contain medicinal recipes, something to do with herbs.”

“Do you mind if I take them with me?” Greg asked. “I know a little about codes. Perhaps I could decipher them for you.”

“I would appreciate that,” I replied. “Perhaps they will tell me something more about my aunt.”

“Undoubtedly,” Greg said, his voice low. For a moment I had the strange impression that he had been able to read the notes and had discovered something unpleasant that he wanted to keep from me. I looked at his face closely. There were lines of worry about his eyes, and his jaw was thrust out. He seemed to be lost in thought.

“Is anything wrong, Greg?” I asked.

He looked up, still frowning. Then he seemed to relax, heaving a sigh.

“Not really,” he said, trying to smile. “I had some bad news today and it's disturbed me a little. My brother in Liverpool is having some business trouble and I am going to have to go and help him out for a few days.”

“I didn't know you had a brother, Greg. You've never mentioned him to me.”

“Haven't I? Wayne is the only family I have left. He's older than I, has a small printing press in Liverpool. He's the salt of the earth, good, steady—too good. He's about to lose his printing press. I think maybe I can look over the books and talk to the creditors and straighten things out. He really knows nothing about the business, keeps in the back of the shop with the ink and the glue and presses and lets others manage all the actual business transactions. His assistant has embezzled some money and run away, leaving Wayne in a bad fix.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that, Greg. How long will you be gone?”

“About a week. Roderick's ball is on the fifth of April. I will get back that afternoon, in plenty of time for the great occasion. Stephenson is going to double up and take over my classes, so the school doesn't mind letting me go.”

Greg stood up, gathering up the notebooks from the table. “I will take these along. Maybe I'll have some time to work on them. Take care of yourself while I'm gone, Angela.”

“I will, Greg. You do the same.”

He left and I spent a long time thinking about what had happened. I had not told Greg about the gun and the key, and I took them out now and examined them again. I looked at the gun and wondered if my aunt had ever used it. It was a pretty thing, so small and well made, but it could be deadly, too. I held the key in my hand, wondering what it unlocked. The gun, the key, the notebooks in the secret drawer—all of them imposed a mystery, and it baffled me. I felt that if I ever found the lock that this key fit I would also find the solution to the mystery of it all.

VIII

I
WAITED
nervously for Greg to come, feeling strange in all my new finery. I stood in the parlor where the last rays of tangerine sunlight were dying on the old ivory walls. I was afraid to sit down lest I rumple the dress, for I wanted to be flawless when Greg arrived. I had not heard from him, and as the clock ticked on in the silence of the room and the sunlight was replaced by long blue shadows, I paced restlessly, and foolishly, for he was to arrive at seven thirty and it was just shortly after seven now.

Nan had spent over an hour over my hair, arranging the light brown waves skillfully on top of my head, with three long ringlets dangling down to touch my naked shoulder. The dress was a thing of beauty, the bodice of red satin cut low, very tight at the waist, adorned with amethyst ribbons, the skirt great swirls of red satin overlaid with shimmering folds of amethyst. I had never worn such a dress, and it gave me a strange feeling of power. I felt like a different person, older, wiser and ready to handle any situation with skill. I was no longer a humble seamstress who had accidentally become the owner of a house in the country. I was a great lady to whom anything might happen.

Yet, at the same time, I was apprehensive. I was in masquerade. I looked at the beautiful woman in the full length mirror, and I still saw the former seamstress, nervously clutching her hands in fear that her escort would not arrive on time.

I was very excited about going to Phoenix Hall. The whole county was talking about the ball, about the lavish preparations that had been made, about the gentry who would be there, about the special food and wine ordered all the way from London, about the musicians Mellory had hired to play for his guests. Some said that Roderick Mellory had prepared Phoenix Hall for his bride and would chose her from all the well brought up young maidens who would attend the ball. Others said that this was his way of flaunting his wealth and power in the faces of those who would not attend, the villagers of Lockwood, who would not even be allowed to stand out in the gardens and watch the grand affair through the windows. Nan had related all this gossip to me, adding and embellishing with her own opinions. There had been no affair like this in Lockwood since Mellory's father had given his memorable balls, many years ago.

When Greg finally arrived, I was a little alarmed at his appearance. He looked very tired, and I could understand this. He had just returned from a long, exhausting trip. But there was something else about his face that I could not quite fathom. There were furrows between his brows and tired lines about the corners of the eyes, and the eyes themselves looked cloudy and disturbed, as though they had seen something distressing. There was a small droop at the corner of his mouth. He seemed preoccupied with something.