The Master of Phoenix Hall

by Jennifer Wilde

  I was sleepy on the way home. The horses moved slowly, clopping heavy hooves on the road. Greg held the reins in one hand, and his arm enfolded my shoulder. We did not talk. My eyelids were heavy, and I laid my head on his shoulder, too sleepy to make any pretense of sociability. The movement of the carriage lulled me to sleep. Today had been too full, too active and it was a relief to just close my eyes and not try to think of all that had happened.

  VII

  LAUREL MELLORY came to see me frequently in the weeks that followed. I helped her trim her petticoats with the lace she had bought at the fair and we sat in the parlor, talking quietly as I trimmed the fine linen with the delicate cobwebby lace. I came to know the girl and her many moods. She had frail health and was subject to severe migraine headaches and burning fevers, and when these came she had to stay in bed with all the draperies tightly drawn. With me she was bright and bubbling with gaity and then, for no apparent reason, sunk into a fit of melancholy gloom.

  She told me of all that was happening at Phoenix Hall. The outside repairs had been completed and the workmen sent back to Devon, and now Roderick Mellory was having work done inside. A fine craftsman from Paris had come to work on the wainscoting, and an Italian with an impressive reputation was working with marble. The parquet floor of the ballroom had been touched up, the plaster redone, new paint added. It would all be completed near the end of the month, and then there was to be a great ball to display a renovated Phoenix Hall. The expense of it all was staggering, but Roderick Mellory would be satisfied.

  “All the money he made in India is gone,” Laurel said, “but the house is beautiful. I wonder what will happen now.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Now that it is all done, Roderick will have nothing to do. There has to be something to fill his hours. He can’t stand to be idle. I am worried.”

  I had no doubt that Roderick Mellory would find some way to fill his hours. When the repairs were all done he could devote more time to trying to evict me from Dower House. After I had told him about the note thrown through my window, there had been no more incidents, although Nan swore she saw a man prowling out in the garden. She had awakened me, alarmed, but when we peered outside no one was there. I thought I saw a dim light flashing in the granite quarries, but it came and went so quickly that I could have been mistaken.

  “Did you see a light out there?” I asked Nan. “In the quarry?”

  “Not this time,” Nan said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s been there before, Miss Angel. I have seen lights out there, moving around. Sometimes more than one.”

  “Perhaps it’s a farmer, looking for a stray animal,” I suggested.

  “If it is, then those animals sure get loose a lot,” Nan said. “Do you think that’s what it is?”

  “Probably, Nan.”

  I remembered Billy Johnson telling us about the lights in the quarry and in the woods and the local speculation that the band of robbers had a den hereabouts. I remembered the highwayman dressed all in black and the two stocky brutes with him. That seemed such a long time ago, and it was fantastic to believe that they could be somewhere around here. Billy had told us that the quarries had numerous caves and tunnels and places where the bandits could hide and store their loot, but if that were so why was it that they had never been discovered? The quarries had been searched a number of times. I felt that all this talk was just that, simply talk. It was certainly nothing for me to worry about.

  I thought no more about it until one night when we were sitting out in the garden. It was warm and the lilac tree filled the air with heavy perfume. We had been sitting here in the old wicker chairs, watching as the sun went down in a burst of scarlet flame. As the shadows thickened, we continued to sit and talk idly about the day’s events. Night fell and a few frosty stars glimmered behind dark clouds. We could hear a cricket chirping under the back step and the boughs of the trees groand a little in the breeze. Peter lay at my feet, sleeping. A few fireflies circled in the shrubs, piercing the darkness occasionally with yellow glow. Nan and I fell silent, both of us very weary and yet enjoying the peace and beauty of the garden at night.

  When I first saw the light, I thought it was a firefly. It moved in the granite quarry, far away, a very dim light. I watched for a moment thinking perhaps it would go away, but the light was still there, moving steadily, as though a man were walking with a hooded lantern. Then there was another light, moving towards the first one, as though two men were meeting in the quarry to discuss some secret business. I thought I could hear voices from far away.

  “Do you see that?” I whispered to Nan.

  “Where?”

  “Over there—in the quarry.”

  “Those lights again,” Nan said. “I told you I’d seen ’em.”

  “What would anyone be doing in the granite quarries at night?” I was not alarmed, but I was very curious.

  “I don’t like it, Miss Angel,” Nan said, “not a bit. There’s not anyone else around here for miles, except for the folks at Phoenix Hall. It’s peculiar—those lights.”

  “Look—they’ve disappeared,” I said.

  “Where did they go? It’s like they were swallowed up.”

  “I don’t know, Nan. It’s curious.”

  I did not sleep well that night. I kept imagining noises in the house. Every creak of the floorboard, every flurry of wind through a crack, seemed to be magnified. I awoke once, certain that I had heard something down in the cellar, but Peter had not barked and Nan had not awakened so I tried to convince myself that it was all my imagination.

  Greg came to see me the next day, and when I told him about the lights in the quarry he laughed and said I must have imagined them. I asked if he had heard the talk about the highwaymen having a den in this area, and he agreed with me that it was simply talk. The people around here thrived on rumors, he explained. There was so little excitement ordinarily that they invented stories to add color to the dullness. The highwaymen would be far too clever to work from one specific location. It was more likely that they roamed around like a band of gypsies.

  “But they always attack in this part of the country,” I said.

  “All over Cornwall,” he replied. “That covers a lot of country.”

  “And none of their loot has ever been recovered. They must have hidden it somewhere.”

  “More likely it’s all gone out of the country,” Greg replied.

  “It’s curious that they have never been caught.”

  “The leader is evidently quite intelligent,” Greg said. “They do not have any system that could trap them by its regularity. Months may pass and there will be no holdups, and then there may be as many as three or four in a month. No, they’re clever. Very clever.”

  “Greg, they say the leader is someone from Lockwood, or at least someone who has connections here. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “Anything is possible, Angela. But I don’t think it likely. It is unfortunate that you had to have the experience you did. It’s made you overly sensitive to all these rumors. It is lucky you weren’t harmed. Those men must be treacherous.”

  “The leader was—almost polite.”

  “Polite?”

  “At least I thought so. He had breeding.”

  Greg threw his head and laughed. It was a rich, pleasant sound. His eyes danced with amusement. “A well bred highwayman,” he said. “That amuses me, Angela. That’s an observation that could only be made by some very young woman who reads too many novels.”

  “Just the same, it’s so.”

  He smiled, placing his hand on my arm. “Let’s talk about something besides bandits,” he said. “Roderick Mellory’s ball is to be held on the fifth of April. You’ll receive an invitation. I want you to go with me. It will be the grand event in this part of the country.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to go,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like Roderick
Mellory. I don’t want to go to Phoenix Hall.”

  “Very few people like him,” Greg replied, smiling, “but that’s not any reason for turning down an invitation to his ball. It will be glamorous. You’ll meet all the gentry from a hundred miles around. None of them like Mellory, either, but they’ll jump at the chance to see his house and eat his food and drink his champagne.”

  “I am curious,” I admitted, “and Laurel would like for me to come.”

  “Then you’ll go?”

  I nodded. “I’m curious to see what Roderick Mellory thinks is grand. I am sure it will all be rather tasteless.”

  “Never underestimate Rod. He can be charming when he pleases, and he will be at his best for this thing. It will be the first entertainment he has given at Phoenix Hall since he inherited it. I’m sure it’ll be worth seeing.”

  “I’m certain of that, too.”

  Greg left, and I spent the rest of the afternoon working in the garden. Now that May was half gone, the plants and flowers were blooming in profusion and required much of my time. I enjoyed being on my hands and knees, working in the rich, loamy soil. I liked digging my hands in the earth and pulling out the hard roots of the herbs. I had learned the name for each of them and knew their properties and how to care for them. Working in the garden was a joy to me, and that afternoon I worked until the sun was beginning to sink and stain the sky with dark golden banners. One of the roots was obstinate and I couldn’t pull it up. I looked around for my spade but couldn’t find it. It was not among the leaves nor could I find it on the grass. I was determined to get the root up before I went in for the evening.

  I vaguely remembered seeing a rusty old spade in the cellar. It would do as well, so I decided to go get it. The sun was sinking fast, dying in a glory of dark gold on the darkening blue sky, and shadows were beginning to lengthen in the yard as I walked inside. Nan and Billy had gone for a stroll, and the house was empty. It seemed very still and silent as I went into the kitchen and unlocked the lock we had put on the cellar door. I left the door wide open to give enough light to see by. I had put aside my first aversion to the cellar, but the same nasty odor rose to my nostrils as I went down the damp steps.

  The floor was damp, too, and we had done nothing about the disorder. We had merely added to it by sending down more trunks and boxes. Billy had brought down several of these, along with several pieces of furniture. As I searched for the spade, my head brushed against a cobweb and I felt it stick to my hair in silky threads. I brushed it away, irritated. There was just enough light for me to see dim outlines, and I could not locate the spade. The walls of the shelves seemed to loom up, very dark. Trunks and boxes cluttered the floor. They were covered with dirt and dust and mildew had spotted the lid of one of the old brass bound leather trunks. The place was filthy, the air was stale and laden with unpleasant odors. I stumbled against a box, hitting my knee sharply on it. I gasped, reaching down to rub my knee. It was then that I noticed the spade. It had been kicked into a corner, and as I moved to get it I saw something else that stopped me.

  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.