Where to look? I had no desire to go traipsing all over the university grounds, searching, asking passersby if they’d seen a small, plump child in faded jeans and navy-blue jersey. I wished Liz or Keith were home, I’d have them search for her, but Keith would probably spend several hours at the library, and there was no telling when Liz would be back. Scowling, I decided to start with Augusta Ward. Perhaps Becky was with her, or perhaps the old lady had seen her. Augusta used to keep a pair of binoculars handy, used to station herself at various windows, keeping an eagle eye on the activities of all her neighbors. I rather doubted that she’d changed much. If anything, she was probably worse than ever. As a child, I’d disliked her as intensely as Liz did. Dreading the ordeal of facing her now, I squared my shoulders and started next door.
Set far back and surrounded by leafy elms, Augusta’s house was a fine example of Tudor architecture, two stories high, with an attic extending the full length of the place. It was much restored, the timbers embedded in the creamy mortar straight and symmetrical instead of roughhewn and crooked as the originals had been, and the roof was thatched, dark gray, contained by a fine wire mesh and extending out over the dormer windows with their leaded diamond panes. Anne Hathaway would have felt right at home in such a dwelling, and the wild, untended, multicolored front garden would have delighted Shakespeare himself. I wondered idly if the house would go to the National Trust after Augusta’s demise. It was certainly old enough, steeped in history.
As I stepped through the gate and started down the walk, the front door opened and a young woman came out, an angry expression on her face. She was tall and slender, wearing a simple leaf-green dress with an exceedingly short skirt that displayed her long, beautifully shaped legs. Her hair was a rich coppery auburn, falling about her shoulders in abundant waves, and even though the skin was stretched tightly over the high cheekbones and the full mouth was set in a hard line, I could see that she was extraordinarily lovely. I stopped, and the girl lifted thick, curling lashes to look at me with enormous gray-green eyes that snapped with anger. Although she was looking straight at me, I don’t believe she really saw me. Those eyes were seeing something else.
I knew who she was at once: Cynthia Ward, Augusta’s niece, the girl Keith had told me about, the one who had been engaged to Bob Hamilton. As I watched, she reached into her purse, pulled out cigarettes and lighter and lit one with hands that shook visibly. She took a long drag, emitted plumes of smoke and, looking back at the house over her shoulder, frowned deeply. She couldn’t be more than eighteen, I thought, and despite the hard set of the mouth, despite the anger, she had a curiously vulnerable quality. Perhaps it was her extreme youth that made me feel an immediate sympathy.
“Hello,” I said.
The girl gave a start, seeing me for the first time. Her expression grew guarded.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked harshly.
“I’m Jane Martin. I used to live next door.”
“Large deal.”
She was trying very hard to be tough, hardboiled, but it didn’t come naturally. I sensed that. The girl had been hurt, deeply hurt, and she had built a shell around herself. Try though she might, she couldn’t hide the anguish in those lovely eyes.
“You’re Cynthia, aren’t you?”
A hostile look came into her eyes. A frown creased her brow. “How did you know my name?” she demanded.
“My nephew told me about you.”
“Your nephew? Who the hell—oh, oh, that would be Keith, wouldn’t it? Keith Martin. You must be Dr. Martin’s sister.”
I nodded. She looked relieved, almost as though I had posed some kind of threat before she knew my identity.
“Keith is a nice kid,” she remarked. “He used to come to the library sometimes. I worked there. I don’t anymore—” There was bitterness in her voice. Smiling a wry smile, she glanced down at the cigarette between her fingers and then tossed it into the flower bed.
“You write,” she said abruptly. “The little girl—the one who hangs around the university—she brought a copy of one of your books to show me when I was still at the library.”
“I’m looking for Becky. That’s why I came over. I thought she might be with Augusta.”
At the mention of her aunt’s name, the girl’s features tightened. “She isn’t there now. She might have been earlier. Look, I’ve got to go. Nice to have met you.”
She hurried down the walk, her high-heeled brown shoes tapping on the flagstones. At the gate she paused, looking back at the house. Her lovely face was hard, defiant, yet I had the impression that she was on the verge of tears. She stood there for several seconds, sunlight burnishing her gleaming copper hair, then moved quickly away, disappearing behind the shrubs that grew in front of the stone wall enclosing the garden.
Sighing, I turned to knock on the front door. Even though Becky wasn’t here now, Augusta might have seen her earlier on. There was no answer at first. I was beginning to think she wasn’t going to come to the door when it suddenly flew open.
“So you’ve come back to apologize, have you! Well, it won’t do you any good! Some words are too wounding. I told you I wouldn’t give you any …”
She broke off, startled. “It’s you,” she snapped.
“Hello, Mrs. Ward. Remember me?”
“Humph! Not likely I’d forget, is it? Always climbing over the back wall, trying to steal my walnuts soon as they fell from the tree. I remember you well enough, Janie Martin, though it’s been years since I saw you. Never came over to pay old Augusta a call, did you? Never once in all the times you came back to visit your brother’s family.”
“Well—”
“All grown up you are, I see. Pretty, too. Who’d of thought it? You used to be as skinny and gawky as that abominable Liz. Wretched child, that one. Silly as a goose! Never misses a chance to stick her tongue out at a poor old woman. Don’t just stand there! Come in, come in. I’ve got a pot of tea made. Cakes, too. I expected young Rebecca to pay a call, but I reckon she hasn’t the time. Just like all the rest of ’em. No one wants to bother with an old woman—”
Fastening her scrawny hand on my arm, she pulled me into the house, closing the door before I could protest. Not that I’d had an opportunity to get a word in edgewise. At eighty, Augusta was even more garrulous than she’d been when I was a child. More formidable, too. I was actually afraid to cross her.
“Come on back to my sitting room. Cozy there, comfortable. We’ll have a nice chat. I thought you were my niece. She was here just a while ago, a sulky girl, most disrespectful. After money, of course. Just like her father before her. She’s my great-niece actually, daughter of my brother William’s son. Money, money, money, that’s all any of ’em could ever think about. Not enough that I agreed to pay the girl’s tuition, even offered to let her stay here—that wouldn’t do, of course, she had to stay in the dorm—” The way Augusta spat the word out one would have thought it the most depraved den of iniquity. “No, that wasn’t enough. She has to come begging for more, as though I’m made of money—”
She led me into a room at the back of the house with a beamed ceiling and large rough-stone fireplace. Brightly colored rag rugs were scattered over the dark polished oak floor, and a fine collection of pewter plates and mugs was arranged on a high shelf extending around two of the flaking cream plaster walls. A card table, many old lamps, a profusion of leafy green plants and blooming cacti in earthenware pots, piles of books and magazines dealing primarily with reincarnation and the occult, crowded the room. Two snug-looking chintz-covered chairs were drawn up before the fireplace, a heavily laden tea cart beside one of them.
“Sit down!” she barked, and, still stunned by her forcefulness, I obeyed, undeniably intimidated.
She busied herself at the tea cart, grumbling irritably, and I studied her, marveling at her brisk energy and the ruddy glow of health she radiated. Tall, boney, angular, she wore a brown crepe dress, half-a-dozen jangling, clattering colored bead nec
klaces and a rather magnificent fringed brown shawl. Her steel-gray hair was worn in short, fluffy locks, golden hoop earrings dangled from her ears and two bright spots of rouge glowed on her cheeks. Her face was long and gaunt, the face of a wicked old gypsy, but the dark-brown eyes were vivacious, snapping with a remarkable zest. Testy, impatient, wildly eccentric, she was nevertheless an imposing figure, majestic in her way. I could see why Becky would find the old lady fascinating.
“Tea’s still hot. Don’t look so nervous. I’m not going to poison you! Nice to have a little company—rarely do, except for Becky. Of course, I visit with the others, but they’re a contrary lot, don’t always appear when I summon ’em. My past selves, you know. See ’em plain as day—I rather fancy I’ll come back as a Hindu, God knows why. I was an Egyptian princess once—the princess and I have smashing chats every now and then. I can see from your expression you’re a sceptic. Probably don’t believe in anything! One lump or two?”
“Uh—one,” I stammered. “I really didn’t intend to come in. I just wanted to ask if—”
“Not still scareda me, are you? You used to be terrified, I recall. Thought I was a witch—” Augusta cackled, obviously delighted at the idea. “Witchcraft! I haven’t gotten into that, rest assured! Here, dearie, take your tea. These cakes are delicious, made ’em just this morning. Rebecca adores ’em.”
“I wanted to ask you if Becky—”
“Such a child! A real joy and comfort to me, I don’t mind admittin’. Visits me quite often, the scamp. We have some rousing card games. She cheats, you know, cheats outrageously, but I don’t pay any attention. I quite adore the child, and as a rule I detest children. Like that Liz, for example. Such a sly one! Caught her trying to snip some of my best roses just last week. No breeding. Ought to be sent to a nunnery! Rebecca now, she’s such a quiet, thoughtful child, always so polite and mannerly, even if she does cheat at cards—”
The Becky I knew was anything but quiet, thoughtful, mannerly and polite, but I made no comment. Augusta sat down in the large, comfortable chair across from mine, and I noticed that the hand holding her teacup was trembling. The cup rattled. I suddenly realized that she was upset, her garrulous onslaught of words merely a device to conceal it, and, for just an instant, she looked almost frightened. She glanced across the room as though for direction, a worried look in her eyes.
“I suppose I’ll have to take some more money out of the bank. I can’t let the little hussy suf—” She cut herself short, gave me a quick glance and sipped her tea. “Forgive me, dearie. I was thinking about my niece. She was here a few minutes ago. Never comes to see her old aunt unless she’s in trouble.”
“Is she in trouble?” I asked.
Augusta didn’t answer right away. The worried look vanished from her eyes, replaced by a crackling anger. Her mouth pressed into a tight line, and her nostrils flared.
“Those bastards—she was a good girl when she first arrived, sweet, innocent. Then she got in with that wild crowd—”
I took a sip of my tea. “Your niece was engaged to the boy who was killed, wasn’t she?”
“It was an accident!” she cried sharply. “They proved that! The papers—”
Augusta broke off, her eyes excited, her rouged cheeks aglow. The question had thrown her. Definitely. I wondered why. She fought to control the sudden burst of excitement, unable to speak for a moment, and then she set her tea cup down with a loud clatter.
“He was a fine lad,” she said. Her voice was cold, hard, devoid of emotion. “He came to see me several times. He found me amusing. Oh, he knew I was an old fraud trying to make myself seem interesting, knew that right away, but it didn’t matter. He let me talk about the princess—sat there with a serious expression on his face, never cracked a smile, pretended to believe me. She never came with him, just that first time when she brought him around to introduce him. He came back on his own, because he enjoyed it. Always brought a box of chocolates, always inquired if I needed anything—”
“He must have been a very engaging young man.”
“He loved her,” she continued in the same flat voice. “Oh, she loved him, too, I’ve no doubt about that, but—he wouldn’t break off the engagement. He was determined to save her, determined to find out—” Augusta looked down at the scrawny hands in her lap, letting the sentence dangle. After a moment she sighed. “There was nothing he could do—”
A long silence followed. Augusta had let her guard down, revealing the lonely and embittered old woman who dwelled behind the shrewish facade. She was indeed an old fraud, her eccentricities studied and deliberate, her sharp tongue and hateful manner mere affectations developed over the years to hide another woman, alone, afraid. She would rather be feared than pitied, and her raucous feuds and reign of terror were like a smoke screen thrown up to keep anyone from glimpsing the real Augusta. Now that I was an adult I could see this clearly, and it made me intensely uncomfortable. She sat there across from me in her preposterous beads, surrounded by her plants and occult books, and her sharp, angular face was strangely beautiful in repose. She had a curious nobility, I thought. As though sensing my line of thought, she looked up angrily, frowning.
“You were going to ask me something about Becky!” she said harshly.
“I wanted to know if you’d seen her today. She’s missing, you see. My brother might allow her to run amuck without supervision, but—”
“Right you are! That brother of yours! Like a chicken with its head cut off most of the time. Distracted! No business whatsoever being a father! Lets that goose Liz sally about in outlandish clothes, lets that boy of his conduct dangerous experiments in the shed, hasn’t the foggiest idea what Becky does. Sometimes I think the children look after him! Oh, he may be brilliant—I’ve no doubt he is, in his way—but I can remember when he was the meanest kid in the neighborhood, always getting into fights and bloodying noses, yelling like a red Indian—”
“Then you haven’t seen Becky today?”
“’Deed I haven’t, though I was expecting her. That’s why I made these cakes. Fool that I am, I thought she might want to come over for a game of cards, but I suspect she’s like everyone else—hasn’t the time for an old woman like me! No one does. You’re rarin’ to be gone yourself. Been here all of ten minutes and already you’re eager to escape!”
“I really should go look for Becky. She’s probably prowling around the university—”
“Fiddlesticks! The child can look after herself. That’s not the reason you want to leave. I guess I know. Want to go traipsing about after that footballer, don’t you?”
“What on earth are you—”
“Any time a girl wears a sweater like that, she’s after a man. Don’t try to deny it.”
“What a preposterous—”
“Oh, I saw the two of you together last night, big as life. I just happened to be looking out of my bedroom window, saw you standing out by your front gate with him, all dusted with moonlight. All starry-eyed, you were, and him raring to go inside with you. Saw you touch his cheek, saw the look on your face—I was surprised you made him leave!”
“Really, Mrs. Ward, you—”
“That fellow is too good-looking,” she interrupted, “has far too much charm. These charmers—never trust ’em! He’s too smooth, much too smooth. Oh, I imagine he can turn a girl on—isn’t that the expression? Turn on? ‘You turn me on’? He’s randy, all right, but men like that are natural heartbreakers.”
“My heart’s safe enough,” I said primly. “I haven’t the slightest interest in Ron Hunter.”
“No? You might be able to fool yourself, but you can’t fool me. I’ve had my share of experiences, dearie. I may be an old ruin now, one foot in the grave and the other foot fast slipping, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been around. Never married, but it wasn’t for lack of opportunity. There’s a story there, of course. Always is! He was a young lieutenant in the First World War, came home covered with glory, swept me off my feet. Devili
shly handsome, just like your football chap, with such a way about him—broke my heart. He was a bounder, a regular bounder. Ran off with a hot-blooded duchess, and her already married—”
Her earlier mood completely gone, Augusta was back in character again, working at the role with all the stagy exaggeration of a creaking but confident old ham. Thoroughly enjoying herself, she clattered away, telling me about her past loves, flamboyant escapades probably nine-tenths invention. Her thin, scrawny hands made sweeping gestures. Her beads rattled noisily. I was concerned about Becky and anxious to get away, only half listening to her and waiting for an opportunity to break into her vivid and colorful monologue. I finished my tea, picked at the cake she thrust upon me, growing more and more impatient and trying not to show it. Augusta began to describe her experiences with a handsome, rakish earl, borrowing heavily from the plot of a popular novel I had chanced to read in my teens. I set my cup down, glancing around the room.
One of the leaded, diamond-paned windows was open, but any view of the back lawn was obscured by a gnarled and ancient elm that grew directly in front of the window. I saw twisting branches and sunflecked leaves—and a scuffed tennis shoe. I sat up very straight, color rushing to my cheeks. The tennis shoe moved, finding a foothold on another branch, and I saw a stocky, jean-clad leg. Noticing my expression, Augusta paused, her eyebrows arched. Fortunately, her back was to the window and she couldn’t see the plump, dirt-streaked face framed with tattered gold locks that peered into the room. There was a sly, mischievous look on Becky’s face, but when her eyes met mine it was quickly replaced by one of alarm. She put a finger to her lips, silently pleading with me not to give her away, then scrambled on down out of sight. I stood up abruptly.
“What’s wrong!” Augusta barked. “You look fit to be tied!”
“I—nothing. I really must go.”
“Humph! Probably remembered an assignation with that football chap. I see him trotting past the house in his sweat suit! He’s bursting with male hormones, all right, magnificent as a young lion, but if you’ve got any sense at all you’ll watch your step—” She stood up, swirling the fringed shawl dramatically. “Becky doesn’t like him, and that child has an unusual perception. I don’t like him either, altogether too hearty—”
Meet a Dark Stranger Page 8
