Here Graham jumped up, struck a pose, and quoted Lady Macbeth, “‘Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full of the milk of human kindness.’” He paused theatrically. “See the resemblance? On Deadman’s Island, what do we have? Why, Mrs. Snyder, who also wants to be ‘queen of the castle,’ as Mrs. Ruff so aptly put it, but has a husband who’s weak-willed. She’s a Lady Macbeth in the making.”
“So you think Lady … uh, Mrs. Snyder might have done in your aunt?” Daniel said.
Graham shook his head. “Read the play Macbeth gets cold feet about killing the king, but Lady Macbeth urges him on.” Again Graham struck a pose and quoted her lines, “‘But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.’”
“Hey you’re good, man,” said Daniel. “How come you didn’t get a bigger part?”
“The director didn’t seem to like me,” Graham said. “I can’t understand why not – I was constantly offering him advice. Anyway, getting back to the story, Macbeth finally gives in to his wife’s urgings and kills the king. My point being, it’s quite possible Mrs. Snyder was the one who talked one of the other two into doing in poor Aunt Etta.”
“That could be,” Neil said. “It’s all speculation, though. We need evidence.” He sighed in frustration. “But we can’t even go there until they leave.”
“Ah, but we have our spy,” Graham said. “Maybe she’ll uncover something.”
“Crescent is not our spy,” Neil said heatedly. “It was her idea to go there, but I don’t like it at all. She’ll be in awful danger if they catch her snooping. Look at how they went after you when you found their message in the library book.”
But Graham didn’t seem to be listening. He was gazing across the water, in the direction of the castle. “Perhaps she’s found out something already,” he said. “For, if I’m not mistaken, here she comes now.”
All three rushed down to shore to greet the approaching sailboat.
THIRTY-TWO
_
As Crescent nosed Discovery up to the public dock on Lovesick, she found three anxious faces peering down at her. “Hi, guys,” she said.
She was immediately bombarded with questions.
“Are you all right?” from Neil.
“Found out anything yet?” from Graham.
“Want a roasted marshmallow?” from Daniel.
She climbed out onto the dock. “Whoa, give me time to catch my breath. I’ve had a busy day.”
“Yeah, give her a break, you guys,” Neil said. “Come and sit by the campfire.”
When they had settled by the fire, Daniel toasted a marshmallow for her.
“I can’t stay long,” Crescent said. “Something’s going to happen tonight, and I want to be there.” She told them about finding the message in Grimsby’s dresser drawer and what she’d overheard earlier out side the Snyders’ bedroom.
“You found out all that in one day!” Graham said.
“Yes, but I’m not sure what it all means,” Crescent said. “Mrs. Snyder’s up to something, but what? And what’s this midnight meeting all about?”
“Sounds like she’s conned Grimsby into meeting her in the tower,” Daniel said, “so hubby can sneak up and stab him, just like that dude Macbeth did.”
Graham scotched that idea. “Never. The Snyders are smart enough to know they wouldn’t get away with that. It would be too obvious who did it.”
“I still think Grimsby’s the one to watch,” Neil said. “Maybe Grimsby’s meeting Snyder in the tower and plans to do him in so he’ll have the castle all to himself.”
“But the note about meeting in the tower was found in Grimsby’s room,” Graham pointed out. “So I assume it was given to him by one of the Snyders-most likely Mrs. Snyder.”
“Man, I’m getting confused,” Daniel said. “Who’s after who? Reminds me of Abbott and Costello’s baseball routine – ‘Who’s on First?’”
“And just to complicate it more,” Graham said, “we’re assuming someone’s planning murder, but this midnight tryst could be simply a flirtation between Grimsby and Mrs. Snyder.”
“Not a chance, Graham,” Crescent said. “I saw Grimsby today for the first time, and he definitely wouldn’t appeal to someone like her. No, if she’s the one who arranged the midnight tryst with Grimsby, then she has something in mind other than romance.”
“I bow to your feminine intuition,” Graham said. “At any rate, I guess you’ll discover what it’s all about soon enough.”
“I hope so,” Crescent said. “The trouble is, whatever happens tonight, we’re still not any closer to finding out about your aunt. That’s what I was really hoping to learn.”
“Maybe you will yet,” Graham said. “If you discover who the real villain is tonight, that’s the first step.”
Dusk was creeping up on them now, turning Deadman’s Island into a hulking, formless shape across the stretch of water separating it from Lovesick. Crescent stood up. “I’m off then. I want to scout out the tower before midnight.”
“Good luck,” Graham said.
Neil took her arm. “I’ll walk you to the dock.” For a moment, it looked as though Daniel was going to tag along, but Neil’s possessive hold on Crescent’s arm may have deterred him, for he merely wished her luck and began toasting another marshmallow.
“It’s too risky for you, over there all alone. I want to go with you,” Neil said.
Crescent shook her head. “No, you stay here. They don’t pay any attention to me – I’m just the servant girl. But if they were to see us together …” She stepped into her boat. “I’ll be careful.”
So Neil stayed on the dock, feeling useless, as Discovery was swallowed up by the darkness.
When she got back to Deadman’s Island, Crescent saw that the lights were still blazing in the castle. She realized that they must still be at dinner. She dropped the sails and paddled into the boathouse, a vast turreted place with enough slips for a dozen boats. Choosing the nearest slip, she tied Discovery up snugly for the night. This would be her bedroom as long as she was working here. The slight rocking motion and the slap of water against the side would lull her to sleep. But not tonight. Tonight, she had to stay awake.
On the far side of the boathouse, she could see the dark streamlined shape of a powerboat, the only other craft there. She remembered Mrs. Ruff saying that Grimsby and the Snyders had rented a speedboat from the marina.
Settled down in Discovery with a book and a flashlight, Crescent got up frequently to keep an eye on the castle. An hour later, the ground-floor lights began to go out, one by one, and the lights in two of the second-floor bedrooms came on.
Time to go.
THIRTY-THREE
_
Crescent walked quietly up the path to the castle. The two bedrooms still showed slits of light between drawn drapes.
The full moon lighting her way was so bright that it created shadows. She stopped and looked over at the tower, which dominated the far corner of the castle. It was topped by a tiled conical roof like a dunce’s cap, and just below the roof, a balcony overlooked the rocky shore. To get to the tower, Crescent would have to take a circuitous route through the castle.
She followed the path around to the back door and took out the key Mrs. Ruff had given her to access the kitchen. Unlocking the door, she slipped inside.
The safest way to reach the tower, she decided, would be to take the servants’ stairs to the empty third floor and cross the floor to the tower.
The bare floorboards of the third floor squeaked beneath her. She stopped, took off her shoes, and continued until she found the door leading to the tower. Almost hidden behind a pile of empty boxes, scrap lumber, and discarded furniture, the door took several hard tugs to open. The unused hinges complained noisily.
Crescent waited until she was sure she hadn’t been heard, then slipped through the door and into the tower. She found herself on a landing. Stairs led up from the floor below, and a long narrow window, through which moonligh
t streamed, illuminated her surroundings. She climbed the stairs that led from the landing to the floor above, stairs so steep that she had to stop and catch her breath at the top. There she found another landing and a door that led out to the balcony. She stepped out cautiously.
The balcony was narrow, with a wrought-iron guardrail that came up to her waist. Her eyes were drawn to the rocks below, where waves rolled in. She shuddered and went quickly back inside.
There was nothing in the way of a hiding place on the top landing. However, attached to the wall opposite the stairs, a metal ladder disappeared into the space under the turret roof – an attic of sorts, perhaps. Crescent considered, then rejected, the idea of hiding up there – she would be trapped, with no way out if she was discovered. She decided it was better to return to the third floor and stay concealed behind the door there. The door had a window, and she could see who went by. Once the two parties, whoever they were, had gone on up to the top floor, she would follow and watch what developed.
Crescent settled down behind the third-floor door to wait, wondering who would be coming up those stairs at midnight. Grimsby of course, was the one who had received the message. But then who? Mrs. Snyder? If it was her, she would likely arrive late, not wanting to appear too eager. But what they were up to was anyone’s guess.
Something rustled behind her, and she swung around. Her flashlight picked out a mouse, peering from the pile of boxes, nose twitching. The mouse stared at her, then scampered away. So long as it wasn’t a rat. Rats spooked her.
She returned to her speculations. Neil, bless his innocent heart, couldn’t believe that a woman like Mrs. Snyder would be behind these schemes. His theory was that Grimsby was the one to really worry about. The ruthless Grimsby might be plotting something, but in a showdown, Crescent would put her money on Mrs. Snyder.
She tensed as a sound rattled up from below. Foot steps echoed on the stairs, moving up cautiously. She strained to see who was there. A man, she thought, probably Grimsby.
But as the figure crossed the landing and passed in front of the window, the face was outlined momentarily by moonlight. It was Mr. Snyder, much to her surprise. He moved quietly up the final flight of stairs to the top floor.
It was some time before Crescent heard footsteps again. A second shadowy figure appeared from below. This, too, was a man – shorter and stockier than the first. As he passed the window, she saw it was Grimsby. He, too, continued on up.
Now Crescent was thoroughly puzzled. Snyder and Grimsby meeting secretly? Why? What could they be up to that they didn’t want Mrs. Snyder to know about? There was only one way to find out.
She drew a deep breath, slipped out onto the landing, and started up the stairs. Suddenly, she heard sounds from below. Someone else was coming!
She scrambled back to her hiding place, just as a third shadowy figure appeared. It, too, crossed in front of the window and mounted the final flight of stairs. Mrs. Snyder!
Crescent’s heart was still beating wildly from her close escape, and she was tempted to stay where she was, behind the third-floor door. She had to steel herself to leave and climb the stairs again, but she did, stopping just short of the top, her head even with the landing.
Through the window in the balcony door, she could see Mrs. Snyder. She was standing at the guardrail and looking out, the moonlight reflecting on her hair. A man’s arm circled her waist. Though the man himself wasn’t in the frame of the window, Crescent recognized the sleeve of Grimsby’s ugly striped sports coat. But where was Mr. Snyder?
Suddenly, Crescent realized that someone was climbing down the metal ladder on the wall across from her. Feet and legs appeared first, then the whole person. Mr. Snyder had been in the attic!
She ducked down the steps as he got off the ladder and crept stealthily across the landing. Reaching the balcony door, he looked through the window at the backs of the two on the balcony. He stood there immobile, his hand on the doorknob.
For what seemed an eternity, no one moved. Not Snyder at the door, not Mrs. Snyder nor Grimsby on the balcony, not Crescent on the steps. The tableau appeared frozen. Then Snyder seemed to stiffen and, throwing open the door, he charged out onto the balcony.
Through the doorway, Crescent saw a turmoil of bodies. She heard a sharp crack, like metal snapping, followed by a long, drawn-out, bone-chilling cry, which faded away and ended abruptly.
The two remaining on the balcony stood silently staring down. Then Snyder, his face contorted, rushed back inside. His wife followed.
“It’s done, Carson,” she said calmly. “Don’t fall apart now.”
Crescent took the stairs down two at time, leaping onto the third-floor landing and snatching open the door. But, shaken by that terrible cry of anguish that still rang in her ears, she hadn’t reacted fast enough. The Snyders had seen her.
“It’s that servant girl – grab her!” Mrs. Snyder cried.
Crescent sped through the door, tripped over the boxes, and sprawled on the floor. Getting herself up, she shoved the boxes, furniture, wood – everything she could lay her hands on – against the door. Then she ran for the servants’ stairs.
Behind her, Snyder struggled to open the door. Putting his shoulder to it, he finally burst through, falling into the pile of debris. He lay there cursing, then pushed the debris away, got up, and limped after her. That gave Crescent time to reach the stairs and clamber down. If she got to the boat ahead of him, she could paddle out of reach and raise the sails.
At the bottom of the stairs, she threw open the door and raced across the kitchen.
“Stop right there!” a voice commanded.
Mrs. Snyder was blocking the way to the back door, an evil-looking meat cleaver in her hand. “I’d hate to use this,” she said, “but I will if I have to.”
THIRTY-FOUR
_
Neil couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the pesky mosquitoes, nor the lumpy ground under him. It was worry-worry about what was happening in the castle and whether Crescent was all right. Where was she now? he wondered. Still in the tower? He didn’t have a watch, but knew it must be late as the full moon had traveled halfway across the sky.
Eventually, he decided it was no use lying here wide-awake any longer. He threw back the blanket and made his way to shore, where Daniel’s dinghy nestled against the dock, occasionally drifting ahead to nudge its companion, an old abandoned punt part full of water. Neil stared down at the dinghy. Should he or shouldn’t he? Was Crescent right? Would it just complicate the situation if he appeared?
Suddenly, the silence of the night was pierced by a faint sound from the direction of Deadman’s Island-a muffled shout, or was it a cry of alarm? It ceased abruptly and the silence settled in again, but it was enough to make up Neil’s mind.
He untied the dinghy, jumped in, and began rowing frantically, his imagination conjuring up visions of Crescent in trouble. Though there was a slight headwind, he soon reached the other island. Making the dinghy fast to the dock, he stood there, panting from the effort and wondering what to do now.
He looked into the boathouse, where Discovery was tied up. Crescent’s empty sleeping bag was spread out in the cockpit, a book open on top, but there was no sign of her. He looked up at the tower. Was she still in her hiding place there, waiting? The castle stared back at him, cloaked in darkness.
He took the now-familiar path to the castle. To his right, the tower loomed in darkness. Somehow, he would have to get in there. He crossed in front of the castle and stood looking up at the tower, alert, his ears straining. All he could hear was the rhythmic strumming of crickets.
Now that he was here, Neil began to have second thoughts. Bumbling about in the tower in the dark, he could do more harm than good and might even put Crescent in worse danger. Why had he come, anyway? Perhaps he should wait on the dock for developments. At least he’d be nearby if she needed him.
But then he caught a glimmer of light reflecting on the trees at the back of the castle. Someone was
up. He took the path around to the back. The kitchen light was on. He crept up to a window that was open to the night breeze.
The Snyders were sitting at the kitchen table, and Mrs. Snyder was drumming on the table irritably with her long red nails. Mr. Snyder was slumped over, his head in his hands.
“And we had it all set up so neatly,” he groaned. “I mean, Grimsby’s supposed suicide note about his money troubles and all. But that servant girl’s ruined everything.”
“Unless we shut her up,” his wife said.
A chill went through Neil.
Mr. Snyder raised his head and stared at his wife. “You don’t mean …?”
She met his gaze. “We can’t stop now, Carson, not with what we have at stake. We have to change the plan a little, that’s all.”
“Change the plan? But how?”
“It may even be better this way.” Mrs. Snyder was gazing into space, as if already visualizing the success of her new scheme. “Suicide never did suit Grimsby’s personality, although I think we would have gotten away with it, from what I hear of that dim Sergeant Simpson. But preying on a servant girl is very much like something Grimsby would do. I can see how it happens now – Grimsby lures the poor girl to the tower under some pretense, grabs her, they struggle, the railing gives way under their weight, they both go over…. We find their bodies, one on top of the other, on the rocks below.”
“No!” her husband groaned. “I can’t do it again. Not another one.”
“We’ve no choice, Carson, we’re in too deep now. But you won’t have to do it alone. I’ll help you.”
“I need a drink,” her husband said weakly.
She stood up. “Come on then, there’s brandy in the library; but only one shot until it’s done, then you can have all you want.” She nodded towards the pantry. “Check that her knots are holding, then come into the library.”
As soon as both Snyders had left, Neil eased the back door open and slipped inside. He found Crescent sitting on the floor of the pantry, her hands tied behind her back and her ankles bound together.
The Castle on Deadman's Island Page 11
