But I couldn’t stop. Not now.
Squaring my shoulders, admonishing myself for the moment of cowardice, I descended into the shadows and soon reached yet another landing where the stairs made still another turn, leading on down into total darkness. My determination vanished. My knees felt suddenly weak and trembly. It was almost as dark as night here, and, remembering the cry, and the sobbing that had followed soon after, I knew that nothing on earth could induce me to go down that last flight of steps without some kind of light.
There has to be a light switch somewhere, I told myself. I placed my palms on the wall directly in front of me. It was nothing but bare boards, rough and splintery. Scarcely able to see my hands, I moved them over the wall like a blind person. Several minutes passed. I felt incredibly foolish … and extremely nervous. I was about to give up when my right hand touched a cool square of plastic. I felt for the switch, pressed it. There was a loud click, and directly over my head a naked bulb dangling from a twisted cord burst into light, pouring white rays over the landing. I blinked, eyes strained by the sudden illumination.
Peering down, I could see the rest of the stairs and a concrete floor below. There was no wall on the left side of the stairs, only open space. I could barely see another lightbulb hanging from the ceiling of the room below. I moved down carefully, found another switch at the foot of the stairs and pressed it. The bulb shed a feeble yellow light that emphasized shadowy corners. The basement room was large, filled with a clutter of boxes and discarded furniture. There were piles of old newspapers and magazines, yellowing with age; cobwebs billowed from the ceiling. It was icy cold, currents of air coming from some mysterious source. Thick layers of dust were spread over everything.
I was disappointed. There was nothing at all out of the ordinary about this room, nothing here one wouldn’t expect to find in a basement. Then I saw the dark, narrow doorway on the other side of the room, beside a pile of stout wooden boxes. Of course, I thought. There must be several rooms down here, rooms for luggage, for old files. Crossing the damp concrete floor, I found that the door opened onto a small hallway. Beyond was darkness. A flashlight hung on a nailhead beside the door. I took it down and turned it on. Its blade of light was thin and wavering, but it would do. Pointing the light ahead of me, I started down the hall.
It was extremely narrow. The ceiling was low, just a few inches above my head. The rafters looked none too sturdy, and I was nervously aware of the great weight of the house pressing down. The flashlight made a flickering glow, washing the walls and floor with misty white light. I went down another hallway, this one with small cell-like rooms opening onto it. I paused to peer into each of them. One contained suitcases and trunks; another was filled with rack upon rack of dust-coated clothes, some of them dating back decades. I passed through another room, then another. The basement was like a labyrinth, I thought, one room opening into the next, hallways branching off, leading to still more rooms, most of them cluttered with the discards of three generations.
I had no idea what I was looking for. What did I expect to find? I didn’t dare think about that. I had grown increasingly more uneasy, and now I could feel my nerve giving way. The flashlight was growing dimmer, its light hazier by the minute. I stopped, breathing heavily. I was accomplishing nothing. What did I expect to find? Not wanting to, trying to drive it out of my mind, I thought about that horrifying cry, about the sobbing. Icy fingers seemed to stroke my arms, my cheeks. I was suddenly aware of the vulnerability of my position. I was alone, surrounded by a maze of dark rooms, with only a fast-failing light to guide me. This was madness. What if … The rooms seemed to stir with a life of their own, seemed to be waiting to trap me, swallow me up. Panic welled. Somehow I managed to control it.
I went back the way I had come, flashing the light left and right. I passed through room after room, down several halls. Reaching the hall leading into the main room, I sighed with relief. But I was startled to find that it led to the wrong room. Naturally, I told myself, you turned to the left in the last room when you should have turned to the right. I backtracked, trying to remain calm, not permitting myself to give way to the steadily mounting panic. I wasn’t lost, I assured myself; I had merely taken a wrong turn. The second hall didn’t lead into the main room either. I stared at the wooden barrels filled with excelsior, fighting down the impulse to scream.
Several minutes elapsed before I finally got back to the room with the stairs. By that time, I was a quivering mass of nerves. There was an old chair just beyond the hall, under the nail where the flashlight had been hanging. I sank into it, exhausted, far too weary and upset to go back up all those stairs just yet. Well, you’ve done yourself proud, I told myself irritably. You’ve spent almost an hour roaming around in the basement and you’ve learned absolutely nothing. You’ve probably ruined a perfectly good outfit, what with the dust and cobwebs, and you’ve got a nasty scratch on your shin as well. Carolyn Brandon, Girl Detective. Then I noticed the door across the room. It was closed, but it must open into a room directly beneath the stairs.
I hadn’t noticed it earlier because my back had been to it when I came down the stairs and stepped into the room. I wasn’t really interested in exploring it. I was too tired and disgusted with myself to be interested in anything but a hot bath and a change of clothes. It was probably a storage room, I reasoned, just like all the others, but … why was the door closed? None of the others had been. I was suddenly intrigued. I crossed the room and turned the handle. The door was locked. Why should it be locked? Excited now, forgetting my earlier mood, I looked around. Finally I spied a rusty old coat hanger on the floor. I picked it up and untwisted it, jamming the crooked end into the keyhole. They did it in the movies and in detective novels all the time. It should have been easy, but it wasn’t. It took a good five minutes of twisting and probing and jabbing before the lock finally clicked.
I opened the door and stepped into the room beneath the stairs.
The room was small. A single window, set high up, overlooked the side lawn. There were heavy iron bars across it. There was a cot, a straight chair, a table; no other furniture. An enormous teddy bear sat lopsidedly on the cot. The table was littered with coloring books, broken crayons, jigsaw puzzles. Rays of mote-filled sunlight streamed through the barred window, staining the concrete floor with hazy yellow pools. I stood just inside the room, and my scalp seemed to rise. There was something in the air, an almost tangible atmosphere of evil. It clung to the walls. The room was permeated with it.
The teddy bear seemed to leer at me. It was grotesque, at least four feet high, the artificial fur faded and nap-worn. The stuffed arms seemed to be reaching out menacingly. The black button eyes stared at me, mocking me. There were long scratches on one side of the wall as though someone, or something, had been tearing at it with bare fingernails. The wall above the table was covered with bizarre crayon drawings, mad faces in red and black and green. On the floor was a large plastic truck that had literally been stamped upon, crushed almost beyond recognition. A wave of horror swept over me. I felt sick and faint. It was only with great effort that I managed to keep from passing out.
I stared at the bars, at the wrecked toy, at the deep scratches on the wall. What did it mean? Dear God, what did it mean?
Long minutes passed. I couldn’t move. Something held me there. I was numb with shock. I didn’t hear the footsteps overhead, or, later, on the concrete floor behind me. Gradually, I was aware of his presence behind me. I could feel his eyes on my back. My flesh turned clammy. He took another step. I felt as if I were under water. Everything was seen through shimmering waves; everything was in slow motion. I turned around, and it took me forever. Through the water I could see Burke standing in the doorway, filling it, looming large and ugly and sinister.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did I. A minute must have gone by before I was able to focus properly. Then the waves evaporated and the dizziness left. How I managed to summon control, I’ll never know, but
I did. I stared at him coldly, defiantly. He was wearing his tailored black uniform, the cloth stretched tightly over his powerful shoulders. His weathered face was hard and impassive. There was a deep purple bruise on the right side, just beneath his cheekbone. He stared at me with his black eyes. He was like a wall in front of me, tall and solid. I could feel myself tightening.
I wouldn’t let him intimidate me, I resolved.
“What are you doing here?” he asked harshly.
“I don’t know that that’s any of your business, Burke.”
“It’s my business,” he said.
“Indeed?”
“What are you doing here?”
I was silent, gazing at him with cool, level eyes.
“How did you get into this room?” he asked.
“I broke in. I used a coat hanger.”
“Your husband won’t like this. Neither will his cousin.”
“I really couldn’t care less.”
“No?”
“No,” I said coldly.
The muscles of his face tightened almost imperceptibly. He continued to stare at me impassively, but I could almost see the anger mounting in him. My calm began to disintegrate. With his large hands and brutal face Burke looked capable of anything. He could knock me senseless without batting an eyelash. I tried to still my jangling nerves. I tried to think.
“I—I’m sorry,” I said.
He merely stared at me.
“I didn’t mean to be rude. You startled me—coming up like that.”
“You shouldn’t be here, Mrs. Brandon.”
“I couldn’t find my—my little blue bag,” I said hastily. “I thought perhaps it had been carried down into the basement. I looked for it in all the rooms down here. It’s—I think one of my rings is in the zipper pocket. I couldn’t find it, and then I saw this room. I thought it might be in here. The door was locked.…”
I didn’t know whether he was buying it or not. I tried to be as convincing as possible, but my acting would never win any awards. He folded his arms over his chest.
“I’ll have the maids look for your bag,” he said finally. His voice was heavy.
“Thank you. I suppose I shouldn’t have come down here, but I was frantic, you see. The ring—it was a keepsake, and—”
“I understand, Mrs. Brandon.”
I could tell he wasn’t quite sure what to make of my story, but I think he may have believed it. It was impossible to tell for sure. He was still blocking the doorway, his face impassive. The dark purple bruise made him seem even more menacing. I wondered how he had got it. I knew it would be useless to ask.
“Burke,” I said, trying to sound casual and calm, “what room is this? It looks like a child’s room.”
“It was,” he replied. “Master Grey and Master Evan used to play here when they were boys.”
“Really? What a—peculiar place for them to play.”
“They were noisy, both of them. Mrs. Porter had extremely sensitive nerves. She didn’t like them to run through the house in bad weather. Down here they could make as much noise as they liked.”
“I see.”
“No one uses the room now.”
“Of course not.”
I didn’t believe him. The rest of the basement was filled with dust and cobwebs. This room was dust free, and no cobwebs hung from the ceiling. The teddy bear was battered with age, true, but the coloring books were much too new. The pages should have been crumbling and yellow. I tried not to show my disbelief.
“I guess I’ll go back upstairs now,” I said lightly. “I do hope they find my little blue bag.”
For a moment I thought Burke wasn’t going to move. He loomed there in the doorway, arms folded, as though he were trying to decide exactly what to do with me. He seemed reluctant to let me go. My nerves were taut, ready to snap, yet I still managed to affect a casual air.
He stepped aside, leaving barely enough room for me to pass.
“Don’t come down here again,” he said. His face was as expressionless as ever, but his voice was hard. Was he threatening me? “If you want anything, ask one of the maids, or ask me.”
“I’ll do that.”
I moved past him, feeling great relief once I was out of the room. I walked slowly over to the stairs, deliberately sauntering, and I could feel his eyes on my back as though it were a physical contact. It was only after I had gone up the first flight and was out of his sight that I let myself go. Nerves strained beyond endurance finally gave way. I leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing quickly, knees as weak as rubber. It was several minutes before I was able to go on up to my bedroom.
I was not going to think about what had happened, about what I had discovered in that room beneath the stairs. I couldn’t allow myself to think about it, for I would go to pieces, defeat my purpose. It was all one gigantic puzzle. The sobbing last night was one piece. The room another. I had to find the other pieces and put them all together. Burke had lied to me about the room. So would the others. It would do no good to ask any of them about it. I was on my own. It was frightening, but there was a certain satisfaction as well. Already this morning I had discovered something of paramount importance.
I was making progress. I had to keep my nerve. I had to remain cool and objective. Later, I could let my emotions take over. In the meantime, I was going to see this through.
My hair was a mess. Skirt and blouse were covered with dust and cobwebs. The scratch on my shin stung fiercely. I took my second bath of the morning. I dressed in rusty orange and brown checked slacks and a rust-colored sweater, brushed my hair vigorously until it fell in soft waves. I applied a touch of rouge to my pale cheeks, used lipstick sparingly. Examining myself in the mirror, I was finally satisfied that all traces of the morning’s experience were gone.
On my way downstairs, I wondered where Grey was. He had obviously come back from the pier with Burke. I didn’t really want to see him. No matter how well I was managing to control it, I was still shaken. My mind was in command, giving directions, telling me how to act, but my nerves were worn and frazzled.
When I reached the foot of the stairs, I saw by the clock in the hall that it was only a quarter past ten. It didn’t seem possible. I had come down shortly after eight. Had only two hours elapsed since I went into the breakfast room? I stood there for a moment with my hand resting on the banister, amazed.
Then I heard the voices coming from the front parlor.
“I won’t allow it, Evan. I won’t allow it.” Helen’s voice was tense and agitated.
“We have no choice. After last night—”
“No,” she said. “No, Evan. We can’t. Don’t you see? Can’t you understand?”
“I’ve already made all the arrangements.”
“How? When? You couldn’t have—”
“Over the telephone. This morning. Everything is arranged. They’re expecting us day after tomorrow. Till then, we’ll be very, very careful, constantly alert—”
“You couldn’t have done it. You couldn’t have gone behind my back! I refuse to believe that my own son—”
“It’s done, Mother.” His voice was like steel.
“I won’t let you go through with it. Do you hear me? I won’t. You have no right. You can call them back. You can say you’ve made a mistake—”
“I don’t intend to argue about it,” he said impatiently.
“Evan! Come back here—”
He marched into the hall before I could prepare myself, his jaw thrust out, his face dark and angry. When he saw me standing there at the foot of the stairs he stopped abruptly, staring at me. Helen came rushing out of the front parlor. Her face was chalk white. Her eyes were wide with alarm. She seized his arm and started to say something. Evan shrugged her away and nodded in my direction. Helen paused, turning to look at me. Her cheeks seemed to turn even whiter.
“I—I didn’t know she was there.”
“Neither did I,” Evan replied in a grim voice.
“Good morning,” I said pleasantly. “Evan said earlier that you had a headache. Is it better?”
“I—yes,” she said. “It’s better.”
“I’m so glad.”
“I do think I’ll go back up to my room, though. I—I’ll speak to you later, Evan.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, still staring at me.
I stepped aside as Helen moved past me. She went on up the stairs, her footsteps making a loud staccato clatter that gradually faded away; and then there was silence. Evan didn’t say anything, just continued to stare with intense brown eyes. They were dark, filled with suspicion. The faded jeans fit tightly. His red and black jersey was wrinkled. With his unkempt hair and suspicious eyes he looked more than ever like a tough, yet that bewildering magnetism had never been stronger. No woman in her right mind would have anything to do with him, I told myself, but even so I couldn’t deny that perverse appeal.
“What did you hear?” he demanded.
“Hear? What are you talking about?”
“Just now. You were listening.”
“I beg to differ with you,” I retorted, seething with carefully simulated outrage. “I had just come down the stairs when you flung into the hall. If you’re accusing me of—”
“I’m not accusing you of anything.”
“You certainly are! How dare you suggest—”
“I’m sorry. It was my mistake.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Mr. Porter. If you think I have nothing better to do than stand around listening to other people’s tedious conversation, you’re very much mistaken. I resent your implica—”
“Look, forget it!”
“You needn’t shout,” I said reasonably.
Evan shook his head in disgust. His shoulders seemed to sag.
Room Beneath the Stairs Page 13
