“What is it, Janie?” Keith asked.
“Really, you children do get on a person’s nerves. No wonder your father is always in such a state. I—we’re going to have a visitor tonight, an—an old friend of mine. I happened to run into him this afternoon, and I happened to mention our little—uh—adventure last night. Stephen insisted on coming over to spend the night, just—just in case anyone tried to break in again. I told him it was absurd, entirely unnecessary, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Actually, I think he merely wants to save the price of a hotel room—”
“Stephen?” Keith said.
“Stephen Brent. I’ve known him for ages. He’s in Abbotstown to give some lectures at the university. Pre-Columbian art. He’s an expert. He’ll be here soon. I do hope you children will be polite to him.”
“He’s going to spend the night?” Liz exclaimed.
“Yes. He’ll sleep down here on the sofa.”
“You told him about the burglar?” Becky asked.
“I just happened to mention it in passing. I told him it was probably all a mistake, that there probably wasn’t anyone there at all, but he’s always had a rather protective attitude toward me, thinks I’m just a helpless female—”
“You’ve never mentioned him before,” Keith remarked.
“Haven’t I, dear? Surely I have. Stephen Brent. We’re old friends. He’s writing a book that Cass hopes to publish. I—uh—there’s one other thing. No one’s to know anything about this. You mustn’t tell anyone about it.”
“Why?” Becky asked suspiciously.
I had to think very, very fast. “Well, he—he’s going with a woman at the university,” I said lightly, trying to sound convincing. “Honora Dunne. Perhaps you know her. She lectures on archeology, and she’s insanely jealous. She saw us together at the pub this afternoon. Stephen and I were having a friendly drink at the Scarlet Lion, and she was there. Made quite a scene. If she were to find out about this—” I paused, running out of fuel.
“I see,” Liz exclaimed, the truth dawning. She promptly forgot all about Ron. “We won’t breathe a word, Janie. Your secret’s safe with us. I never realized you had such an exciting sex life. What does he look like? Is he handsome? Are you going to marry him, or will you just—”
“I think it’s stupid,” Becky proclaimed.
“Nevertheless, pet, you must promise not to mention it to anyone.”
“Oh, all right,” she said grumpily, “but I still say the whole thing’s a drag. He’s probably a stuffy old bore in glasses, probably won’t even let me take his fingerprints—”
“I’m going to my room to freshen up a bit now,” I said in a bright voice. “If he arrives before I come back down, show him in, will you? And behave yourselves.”
I made my escape, hurrying upstairs with relief. My nerves were frazzled. I wasn’t at all sure that they’d bought it. Liz, of course, put her own interpretation on things, and that was just as well, but Keith hadn’t seemed at all convinced and Becky was wildly unpredictable. I’d done rather well, I thought, but it had been a dreadful ordeal. I washed my face. I brushed my hair vigorously. I applied fresh makeup as well, to make me feel better and give me something to do. Studying my reflection in the mirror, I was at least partially satisfied with the results. Although my face seemed drawn and my lids were stained with dark gray shadows, I didn’t look nearly as bad as I felt.
Keith was waiting in the hall when I stepped out of my room. His face was grim, his wide pink mouth, so like his father’s, turned down at both corners. He seemed to be pondering something, hesitant to bring it up. Puzzled, I smiled, but he didn’t smile back.
“Is something wrong, pet?”
He nodded, looking down at the floor. He pondered for a moment longer and then took a deep breath, a resolute look in his eyes.
“You weren’t telling the truth down there,” he accused.
“Whatever makes you think—”
“I know you, Janie. You’re not a very good liar. That man—he isn’t an old friend of yours, is he?”
“Well, actually—no, he isn’t, but—”
“I knew something was wrong when you came in this afternoon to tell us you had to run a errand. You were pale. You looked tense. The girls didn’t notice, but I knew right away something had happened. You weren’t yourself. You haven’t been yourself all evening.”
I didn’t know what to say. Keith looked up at me.
“When I was at the library this afternoon I heard all about the corpse they found near the playing fields. No one could talk about anything else. He was murdered this morning, they said, probably around nine o’clock or so. This—this man coming here tonight, it has something to do with the murder, doesn’t it?”
I looked at my nephew. He was calm, manly, waiting for my reply with a patient expression. I couldn’t lie to him. Keith was far too intelligent for that. I knew he was completely trustworthy. I decided to tell him the truth—or at least part of it.
“It might have,” I said.
“The man’s a policeman, isn’t he?”
I nodded, gnawing my lower lip.
“I thought so. Someone did try to break into the house last night. He was after something.”
“Yes, Pet, I’m afraid he was.”
“And that man was murdered this morning—”
“No more questions, Keith, please. I—I can’t tell you any more just now. Everything’s going to be all right. I—in a way I’m glad you know. You can help me keep an eye on the girls, particularly Becky. They mustn’t know anything about this.”
“Of course not,” he said calmly.
“I don’t want Becky to find out about the murder, either. You know how she is. We’ve got to keep it from her.”
Keith understood perfectly. He nodded gravely. He was frightfully mature for his age, and I knew I could depend on him. Feeling better already, I smiled and ran my fingers through his hair, an affectionate, auntish gesture which he endured with stoic calm and only a slight scowl, and we went downstairs to join the girls.
“You look divine,” Liz said.
“When’s this character going to be here?” Becky grumbled.
“Both of you keep quiet,” Keith said firmly.
“You’re such a bully, Keith,” Liz pouted.
“You’re not going to push me around,” Becky told him.
“Children,” I said, “please—”
I stepped over to the windows and, parting the draperies, peered out into the darkness. Everything was pitch black, the trees barely visible. I tried not to think of the murder. My nerves were beginning to act up again. Why didn’t he come? I sat down on the sofa, folding my hands in my lap. Keith resumed work on his blueprints. The girls hung about, watching me. The clock ticked monotonously. The atmosphere was fraught with expectancy. Fifteen minutes passed, thirty. I waited.
Someone knocked on the front door. I almost jumped.
“It’s him,” Liz whispered dramatically.
The lights were off in the front hall. It was shrouded in shadows, the dark forms of furniture barely visible. I stumbled toward the door and then, my hand on the bolt, I paused, my blood suddenly running cold. Someone was out there, I could feel a presence on the other side of the door, but I didn’t know if it was Stephen. It might not be him. It might be … The knock sounded again, low, secretive, disturbing.
I cleared my throat. “Who—who is it?”
Silence.
“Who’s there?” I asked nervously.
There was no answer.
9
The moon came out from behind a bank of clouds and misty light spilled into the hall through the side windows, staining the floor with silver, heightening the shadows massed along the walls. My hand was still on the bolt, fingers gripping the cold metal, and my heart seemed to have stopped beating. I had never known such fear. In the past I’d been amused to read about icy chills creeping up and down some heroine’s spine, considering the expression both hackneye
d and wildly exaggerated, but now I knew exactly what it meant. My whole body seemed to be tightly gripped by some gigantic, invisible hand, ice cold, robbing me of reason. Something rustled on the other side of the door. There was a shuffle of footsteps, an impatient grunt, another knock, louder this time.
“Are you going to open this bloody door?” he rumbled.
“Stephen?”
“Who the hell were you expecting?”
Fear vanished, replaced by an equally intense rage. My hand fumbled with the bolt, fingers trembling, and it took me almost a minute to get the door unlocked. I threw it open, glaring at him with an expression that Medusa would have envied, but Stephen Brent didn’t turn to stone. He merely stood there gripping his small bag, totally unperturbed.
“Why didn’t you answer me!” I exclaimed.
“I didn’t think it was necessary. The idea is to keep this secret, not rouse all the neighbors with shouting matches through closed doors. I told you I’d be here. Who did you think I was, Boris Karloff?”
“I don’t find that at all funny. I’ve just lost ten years’ growth! When you didn’t answer, I—”
“Relax,” he said, nonchalantly stepping into the hall.
A shaft of moonlight streamed through the open door, silhouetting him, a tall, dark form outlined in silver. Still fuming, I closed the door and locked it, then groped along the wall for the switch and pressed it. Light poured down from the chandelier overhead. Completely at ease, indifferent to my anger, Stephen Brent gazed around appreciatively, taking in all the details of the place. When he turned to me, his gaze was equally appreciative. I shoved a lock of chestnut hair from my temple and bit back several unladylike phrases.
“You’re quite attractive like that,” he remarked, “cheeks pink, eyes flashing.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I said bitterly.
“Really? Nice place you have here. I don’t actually know all that much about antiques, but I’d say your brother has a fortune here. Chippendale chairs, Aubusson carpet. That chandelier must date back to—”
“I’m not at all interested in your evaluation of furniture, Mr. Brent. You frightened the life out of me. If you only knew what I thought when no one answered—”
“Sorry, luv,” he said, stifling a slight yawn. He strolled over to examine a small Sheraton table, picking up the Meissen box sitting on it. “You really should keep these things dusted, you know. Have you prepared the children for my entrance?”
I gave him a brief rundown on what I’d told them, and he nodded with approval. He wore black slacks, a soft, light-blue sweater and a lightweight black overcoat, unbuttoned and hanging loosely open. The sweater made his eyes seem almost unbelievably blue. A lock of hair fell across his forehead like a dark comma, emphasizing his wickedly arched brows. He studied me lazily and, after a moment, grinned, causing the twisted nose to twist even more. My anger evaporated. I merely felt foolish.
“I didn’t mean to be nasty,” I said, “but you really did frighten me.”
“Forget it,” he replied, pardoning me with a slight wave of the hand. “I’m eager to meet the children. Where are they?”
“In the sitting room. Come, we might as well get it over with.”
“Incidently,” he added as we moved down the hall, “I’ve had no dinner. Had to work late. Didn’t have time to stop for anything. Think you could rustle up something?”
“I guess so,” I said irritably. “I’m not a very good cook—”
“Oh, I don’t expect a seven course meal. Just something light and substantial. Ah, here we are—”
The children were very quiet as I performed introductions, each summing the man up in their own way. Becky was suspicious, her eyes belligerent, her lower lip thrust out. Keith was solemn, looking at Stephen with cool appraisal. Liz glowed with animation, immediately won over, finding him dashing and intriguing and an absolute dream. Stephen smiled, set down his bag, slipped off his overcoat and prepared to make friends.
He really does have charisma, I thought, watching with a twinge of resentment as he worked his charm on them. He leaned over Keith’s shoulder and peered at the blueprints, asking intelligent questions, and Keith answered politely, unbending a little. Turning to Becky, he casually remarked that he understood she was interested in detective work and claimed he would love to see her collection of fingerprints. She scowled, hesitant, still wary, and asked if he’d let her take his. Stephen said he’d be honored. Elated, Becky scampered out of the room to fetch her kit, and as she left he turned to Liz, claimed he’d always admired dancers and asked if she intended to become a professional. Ten minutes later he was sitting on the sofa, Liz on one side, babbling away merrily about the trials and tribulations of the artistic soul, Becky on the other side, busily pressing his thumb on an inky pad.
“… extremely sensitive. It’s a curse, I know, but I was born with it. People can’t understand that. Most people don’t feel, don’t experience things. Those of us who do must express it, must let all those emotions out some way before they consume us. Artists, you see, aren’t like everyone else, and it’s shockingly unfair to expect them to fit into humdrum molds like the rest of humanity. Lola Montez, now, she refused to do what people expected, and it brought nothing but grief, nothing but pain—”
“… didn’t really expect you to let me take ’em. People are suspicious about it, afraid you’re trying to trap them. There, that’s a perfect impression. Give me your other thumb. I’m working on a case right now, as a matter of fact. Of course, no one takes me seriously, I’m just a kid, but before I’m finished everyone is going to sit up and take notice. I wish I could tell you about it, but it’s very hush-hush. I have to be sure of my evidence before I start—”
Lolling there on the sofa in his sky-blue sweater, flanked on either side by my nieces, he was a raging success. No doubt about it. Charisma. He couldn’t begin to compare with Ron as far as looks were concerned—that broken nose, that much-too-wide mouth—but he had something, something that went beyond sheer magnetism, and the girls were eating it up. Keith, too, seemed to take to him, flattered by his interest in the blueprints, surprised by Stephen’s complete comprehension of the intricate designs. I couldn’t help but feel rather jealous as they basked in his charm.
Stephen wiped his fingers on a handkerchief, studied the prints Becky had taken, then lolled back even more and stretched his arms out along the back of the sofa, looking up at me with a confident smile.
“Let’s not forget that dinner,” he said breezily. “I’m starving.”
“I’m hungry, too,” Becky said, not unexpectedly. “Why don’t you dash into the kitchen and whip up something for all of us?”
“We’ll have a party!” Liz exclaimed.
“I could use some cake and milk, Janie,” Keith said politely. “A sandwich might be nice, too.”
“Janie’s a deplorable cook,” Liz confided. “She can hardly make toast without setting the house on fire. It’s terrible. You have no idea the disgusting things we’ve been forced to eat since she arrived—”
Irritated, feeling betrayed by nieces and nephew alike, I stalked into the kitchen and threw sandwiches together, almost slicing an artery in the process. I opened bags of potato chips. I poured milk. I sliced cake. I piled it all on trays and, wearing a martyred expression, carried one of them into the sitting room. Keith had rolled up his blueprints, clearing the card table. I set the tray on it. Stephen was telling Liz about Max Ophuls’ film about Lola Montez. No one paid the least attention to me. I fetched the second tray, returning to find them already munching the sandwiches and listening to Stephen talk about famous criminals, Liz sitting at his feet, Becky beside him, Keith perched on the arm of the sofa. A regular Pied Piper, I thought bitterly, glaring at the lot of them.
I was kept busy for the next thirty minutes, fetching more milk, replenishing the supply of potato chips, making another sandwich when our guest decided he could use another. He also took a second slice of choc
olate cake. Tired, my feet aching, I sat down firmly on one of the chairs and insisted the girls clear up the mess, a task they performed briskly so as not to miss anything. While they were busy, Stephen discussed aeronautical engineering with Keith, and Keith seemed to blossom, opening up more than I’d ever seen him do, expressing his views with considerable vivacity. I might have been invisible. Stephen Brent didn’t even seem to be aware of my presence.
The girls returned. The subject changed to sports. Keith described the fitness program Ron was conducting every morning at the playing field, and Stephen bragged a bit about his soccer games at Oxford. Shameless, he mentioned his prowess at judo, and nothing would do but that he show them a few techniques. Despite my protests, the furniture was shoved back, and Keith and Stephen took the center of the floor, the girls an enraptured audience. I watched apprehensively as Stephen showed them various armlocks and strangleholds and hip throws and voiced my outrage as Keith came flying across the room to land at my feet in a tangle of arms and legs. He picked himself up, brushed off his jeans and asked Stephen to explain just how he’d worked that particular throw.
Later on, the girls popped popcorn, the lamps were turned out, and they all settled down to watch an old World War Two film on the telly. Disgusted, I went upstairs and tried to read, but it was impossible to concentrate with the cries of bloodthirsty Germans soaring up the stairs. I finally took a hot, soaking bath, doused myself with cologne and slipped into a white nylon tricot nightgown. My bedroom was cozy, one lamp making a soft golden pool, the bedclothes turned back invitingly, but I knew I couldn’t go to bed until the movie was over and I had carried sheets, blanket and pillow down to the sitting room for Stephen.
It had been an incredible day, I reflected. I still couldn’t believe it. The house was filled with warmth, a party atmosphere prevailed, and the children were happier than they had been in a long time, charmed by their new companion. Frowning, I stepped over to the window and peered out at the night. The line of trees at the foot of the property cast long, angular shadows over a silver-washed lawn and the potting shed was lost in a mass of impenetrable blackness. Was there really menace out there? Was I actually caught up in the midst of something dark and evil? It was insane, something that happened in books and films but not in real life, yet a policeman from Scotland Yard was in the house right now—he was a policeman, no matter how improbable it seemed—and George Larson had been murdered just a few hours ago. Sleepy, weary, depressed, I turned away from the window, relieved to hear the girls come racketing up the stairs.
Meet a Dark Stranger Page 12
