To love and to honor (22 page)

That train of thought wouldn't get her anywhere, it would land on a turntable and shoot her back where she started. She looked at the world visible beyond the long open window beside her. One could have faith in the rotation of the seasons, they never disappointed. August

was showing definite signs of autumn; there was a new tang in the air. The portion of the sky visible from her seat in the old pew of the Clintons was cold and blue as a lump of turquoise. Maples flaming. Weeds in the garden were lagging. Baldwin apples in the orchard beside the church were showing rosy cheeks; the weight of luscious, juicy blackberries on the bushes along the bank of the brook beneath the window bent till the tips almost touched the rippling water. September on the threshold. What would the month bring? "Faith, your fortress against fear."

She shut out the confident voice from the pulpit and allowed her thoughts to drift. That shivery, unbelievable experience in the police court yesterday morning definitely belonged to August, that couldn't happen again.

The weekly local newssheet had carried no account of it. Had Ken Stewart been able to suppress the report? He appeared to have unlimited influence. He had shown his billfold to the Chief at police headquarters and immediately the man's attitude had changed. Her story had been listened to and believed.

Why live over that? Why anticipate September when she had a chill uncertainty as to what trap tomorrow might spring? Trouble was bound to break soon about the jewels in the turret room. Was it only two days ago she had discovered them? Was the theft of the limousine tied in with the gang which had hidden the loot? She had protested against leaving The Castle this morning but Sary had said Joe would be there-Joe! "Brother Joe" who came from Grand Manan on a lobster deal. She had swallowed Sary's yarn hook, line and sinker. Of course he was Bill Damon's—Ken Stewart's—man. Sary was missing her vocation. She should be doing character parts on the stage. Hadn't Tom Slade seen Bill Damon in a shop with "a heavy-built guy who looked like a plain-clothes man"? A perfect description of Brother Joe. He rated an Oscar for acting. One couldn't think of him as other than a lobster man from Grand Manan.

Tom. Another problem, life seemed beset with them. When she had phoned the hospital this morning his nurse had reported that he would be discharged soon. Slie remembered the sharp stab of her conscience as she left his room. She didn't love Tom Slade, never could, she knew now, she should have told him before he came East this summer, but she had deceived herself with the thought that as she didn't love anyone else, he was so fine that perhaps when she was free-Free. The word brought the fierce emotional storm she had been holding back down on her spirit like a collapsing house. Why hadn't she felt who Bill Damon was? That day at the beach the curious sense that he was not the person he claimed to be must have been instinct trying to get through a message to her brain.

Why, why hadn't Ken Stewart during that interminable drive home from the hospital seized the opportunity to excuse himself for the deception? Excuse himself? Not he. Hadn't he flung back at Lydia Fane in the voice of a man sure in his convictions, the voice of a fighter who would not admit defeat:

"Deny it? My dear woman, why should I? It is my name."

She had been braced to combat any defense he might offer as the reason for his alias, had fought an inexplicable power that was drawing her head to his shoulder, an aching desire to feel his arms about her, his lips on hers. She could have spared herself the strain. After inquiring as to Tom Slade's condition he had not spoken again until at the door of The Castle he had said:

"This is the second time I have rescued you, Cinderella. The third, if there is a third time, I shall consider findings keepings. Good night."

What had he meant by that?

The nudge of Sarah Ann Parker's sharp elbow brought her crashing back to the present.

"Sakes alive, Cindy, you asleep? Stand up. It's the closing hymn."

She rose quickly in response to the reminding whisper while the organ pealed a prelude.

"My Country 'tis of thee,

Sweet land of Liberty,

Of Thee I sing."

The volume of voices rose and swelled to the accompaniment of the organ till the magic and music of the song filled every inch and crevice of the old church and set the air outside the open window vibrating.

"Protect us by Thy might. Great God our King."

As Cindy and she walked slowly down the center aisle Sarah Ann Parker indulged in a low-tone monologue, the black coque feather on her hat nodding with each emphatic word.

"That last hymn was rousin', Cinderella. Congregations will go to town on that if they never sing anything else. Funny how the preachers keep on proddin' folks to better living, more unselfish lives. With all the deviltry in the world you'd think they'd kinder lose faith in human nature, but they keep on believin' in it, keep on fishing for the divine spark in man and after hearin' that sermon I'm sold on the idea myself, I guess it's in all of us.

"There's that Mrs. Sally Drew from Rockledge dressed up to kill in aqua linen. She's bowin' and smirkin' right and left. Looks like being invited to the Armstrongs' to dinner kind of set her up. Alida Barclay near the big door is lookin' at you, Cindy, as if she wanted to catch your eye. She's stylish in that thin black rig but not so smart lookin' as you all in white. Mr. Damon has joined her. I thought he was the kind of man who would come to church. Want to know somethin'? I wouldn't be surprised if that turned out to be a match."

"You mean a marriage? Mrs. Barclay is years older than he."

"How do you know? Men keep awful young-looking these days."

She let that go. She did know Ken Stewart was thirty-two. She turned her back on the woman and man near

the door and hailed Hal Harding who stood on the upper step outside.

"Hi, Hal. Waiting for me?" Her cordial laughing greeting widened his eyes in surprise, deepened the color of his face.

"Sure I am waiting for you, Cinderella. Didn't know if you would speak to me after we showed up your ex," he admitted as they went down the steps together.

"You and Lyd got oft on the wrong foot. It was not much of a show-up when I knew who he was all the time."

"You really have nothing to forgive. The laugh is on us. We were knocked silly when he said he was Stewart. We planned for the boy to announce the name at midnight as a sort of Cinderella act, thinking to give you a start for a minute. Our joke was a boomerang. We had no idea that the name Bill Damon was an alias. Lyd put up a great bluff pretending she knew, but she was as flabbergasted as I."

"It was a mean trick, Hal."

"You are one hundred per cent right, sugar. I tried to find you in the supper room that night but you had disappeared. Now that we're pals again, come to a steak party tomorrow at my playhouse at sunset, will you? I will invite a few congenial spirits. Nix on your ex, though. We'll have a celebration. Don't stiffen. Nothing to do with your freedom. Just an early autumn binge, the days are getting too short for many more."

"I'll come."

"Hoorayl Now I know we're pals. Thought I would count in the tenant at Rockledge. Have you met her?"

"You're slipping. Have you forgotten I was at the dinner the Armstrongs gave for her?"

"Sure you were. Boy, am I losing my memory? Here comes Lyd Fane." He waved to the girl approaching. "I wonder why she always wears green?"

"Thinks it matches her eyes, probably," she answered his impatient question. "I must hustle. I have to drive Sarah Ann Parker home. Her brother is staying with us. He's a lobster man from Grand Manan."

"Her brotherr

"What's SO Startling about that? Most women have a brother, haven't they?"

"I wasn't startled. I've thought of good old Sary as being the lone twig on the family tree. I'll call for you in the speed runabout tomorrow at four-thirty so we can get an early start on the fun."

"I'll be ready and waiting. I'm keen for a real party. Life has been deadly dull lately." Her response was unnecessarily loud, to make sure that Alida Barclay and Ken Stewart behind them didn't miss her enthusiastic reply.

That's a darned ungrateful remark, she told herself as she walked away. The gremlins will get you if you don't watch out, Cinderella Clinton. You discover hidden jewels; make a smash hit at the masquerade with your skating act; discover that the man you've gone all out for is a person you hate; and get kidnaped all within two days. You couldn't crowd much more into forty-eight hours.

Monday afternoon Cindy stopped at the door of the kitchen.

"Where you goin' now?" Sarah Ann Parker inquired.

"You know. I told you this morning that Hal Harding is giving a steak party at his playhouse this afternoon and that I wouldn't be here for dinner."

"Hmp! That's why you're wearin' that white silk shirtwaist dress an' the light blue cardigan with CCS. on the pocket at this time of day. Better tie the bright kerchief drawn through your belt over your hair. Don't stay late, child. After your experience Friday night I'm scared to have you off the place after dark. That reminds me," she drew a square of paper from the pocket of her red print dress. "Most forgot to give it to you. When I was putting your great-grandmother's skatin' costume back in the trunk this morning I found this in the pocket. Sealed so careful thought it might be a love letter. Time you was having them, child."

"A love letter?" Cindy ignored Sary's affectionate chuckle and turned over and over the folded paper

fastened at one edge with Scotch tape. "You found this in the pocket of that red skirt? My name isn't on it."

" 'Twas in the same pocket with your mask. Funny you didn't know it was there. You were havin' such a good time I guess you forgot someone gave it to you."

Had one of her unrecognized partners slipped it into her pocket while they were dancing? Why not give it to her? Queer. Perhaps it was tied up with the cache of jewels in tlie turret room. The thought set her heart drumming like a partridge on a log. Sary mustn't get an inkling of that suspicion till she had found out what it was. She tucked the folded paper into a pocket of her light blue cardigan and laughed.

"I was having a good time and I did forget someone gave it to me. Perhaps it is the question I was to ask at an Information Please quiz that was to follow supper at the masquerade. Something happened to wreck the plan." You're getting to be a slick prevaricator, my girl, she told herself before she added aloud, "I'm off."

"Does Mr. Damon know you're going?"

"He doesn't know I'm going and I hope I never see him again. Make what you like out of that. Don't worry about me, Sary. That stolen limousine adventure couldn't happen twice in a lifetime. If it does—send Brother Joe in search of me."

"What do you mean, saying 'Brother Joe' in that kind of snippy voice? Not mad because he's here, are you?"

"Of course I'm not mad because he's here. There's the speedboat siren. Hal is waiting for me."

"I should think he'd be polite an' come to the house for you. Other folks goin' to be there?"

"Of course others will be there, Sary, and while we are on the subject, I wish you would stop treating me like a kid. You check every step I take."

"Sakes alive, Cindy, what's got into you? Haven't you told me where you were going since you was a little girl? Want to know somethin'? You've been cross as two sticks ever since the masquerade. 'Tain't like you. I can't figure out whether it's because you're worried about that Slade fella or you've got a guilty conscience."

"Wouldn't you be on edge if you'd found a bag of

jewels hidden in your house and expected the police to arrive any minute and accuse you of hiding stolen goods?"

"Calm down, Cindy. Colonel Bill Damon—"

"Stop calling him that. You know perfectly well that the person who claimed to be Bill Damon is Kenniston Stewart. Good-by. Expect me when you see me and not a minute before."

That burst of temperament set Sary's mouth ajar, she thought as she crossed the patio. I'll bet she has known who he is all the time. Why do I care that Ken Stewart put on that "guide, philosopher and friend" act; that Sary thinks there may be a "match" between him and Ally Barclay? Plenty of other things to think about with the paper which appeared so mysteriously in the pocket of the red skating costume pricking in the pocket of my cardigan this minute. I'd better get busy putting together the pieces of that puzzle.

Halfway across the putting green she stopped and looked back at the house, before she pulled the folded paper from her pocket. She ripped it open. Read the clumsy printed message. Read it twice.

"Keep away from the seat on the point. Stop flashing lights. DANGER."

TWENTY-FIVE

"Keep away from the seat on the point. Stop flasliing lights. DANGER."

Danger? To whom? What could it mean? She looked toward the stone seat beyond the putting green. Sary and she had been the only persons living at The Castle this summer. Joe was there now but it couldn't refer to him. He had arrived only a few hours before the Bal Masque where apparently the warning had been slipped into her pocket. Had it been intended for someone else? That explanation was out. "Keep away from the seat on the point" must mean the seat she could see just ahead; there wasn't another like it on this shore.

"Stop flashing lights." The writer was on the wrong trail if he suspected an occupant of The Castle. Sary had said:

"You can see it plain from that seat on our point"— she had referred to the house across the cove, "I sit there a lot to watch what goes on. Every little while a big boat drops anchor off Rockledge shore and signals."

The suspicion that the message had been intended for Sary was ridiculous. Hadn't she rushed out of the house to report flashed lights the night a boat had bumped against the oceanside landing at The Castle? Later hadn't she herself heard a voice warn:

"They've made the getaway safely. Now we can go.

Our job is done. No one awake here. Luckily for them."

She recalled the icy chills that had crept up her spine