There were no pots, no sacks of mould, no hoes, no gardening tools whatsoever inside the shed now. A large, sturdy table and a narrow wooden bench were the only furniture. The walls were papered with charts, diagrams and intricately conceived blueprints, with an occasional colored picture of rocket or plane. The bench was piled high with technical books and papers and tools, and various greasy black mechanisms were scattered about, as if someone had disemboweled a car. A bare light bulb dangled directly over the table. Under its beam Keith was working industriously, hands black with grease, his sweat shirt hopelessly soiled, so intent on his work that he didn’t even notice me entering. Eyes narrowed, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, he was affixing a delicate wire to a peculiar aluminium object festooned with red knobs and brass rods, and when he finally looked up he nodded brusquely, motioned for me to wait and completed the job, taking a step backward to survey the object with critical eyes.
“Combustion engine,” he told me. “I designed it myself. It’s not finished yet, of course, but when it is I’m hoping to get a patent. It’s unique, you see—” He went on to describe the engine in detail, explaining its component parts, telling me the function of each, and he might as well have been speaking Swahili. I listened patiently, nodding now and then just to be polite and, as he wiped his hands with a grotesquely soiled red bandana, told him why I’d intruded on him.
“You will keep an eye on Becky, won’t you?”
“Sure,” he said. “She’ll be all right.”
“I don’t want her to go off anywhere, Keith. I told her she was to stay in the house until I got back, but—well, you know Becky.”
“Yeah,” he said, studying his engine and obviously eager to get back to it. “I’ll keep an eye on her. By the way, there’s a cop in the fields back there.”
“Oh?”
“He’s got a pair of binoculars and a book on bird-watching, and he’s wearing the oddest green cap, but I’m sure he’s a cop. A grosbeak finch lit on a branch not ten feet from him and he couldn’t have cared less. Besides, he’s much too ruddy-cheeked and muscular to be a bird watcher.”
“Indeed? Well—that’s nice.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what this is all about?”
“Not—not just yet, luv, but you’re not to worry about it.”
“Oh, I won’t,” he said, rummaging in his tool kit for a pair of wire cutters, “not with Stephen in charge. He’ll be back again tonight, won’t he?”
“I expect he will.”
“Ripping!” Keith exclaimed.
I went back inside the house to fetch my purse and car keys, checked on Becky and Liz again and then stepped out the front door, heading for the car. I noticed a gardener working in Augusta’s front garden, a giant of a man with brick-red hair and deeply tanned face, dressed in jeans and loose brown nylon windbreaker. His expression was one of extreme boredom as he clipped without enthusiasm at a privet hedge, quite plainly unaccustomed to using shears. As I stepped into the drive, he looked up, studying me with considerable interest, and I observed the distinct bulge beneath the windbreaker. I wondered how Constable Clark had managed to get the man there without arousing Augusta’s suspicion. I was soon to find out. Augusta herself came briskly out of the house and marched over to the fence, calling out to me in strident tones.
“Good afternoon, Augusta,” I said, moving around the car to join her at the fence.
Augusta thrust a book into my hands. “I wanted to give you this,” she snapped, scowling, “and I want you to read it. Then maybe you won’t think I’m so dotty.”
Pages thumbmarked, binding limp, dust jacket considerably tattered, the book was the much-publicized “revelation” of a vastly popular though decidedly pedestrian American writer who had suddenly decided she was the reincarnation of, among others, an Incan princess and a famous Victorian novelist, thus explaining the historical verisimilitude she had been incorporating in her epics for all these years. I had read the book with considerable amusement several months ago, but, not wanting to hurt any feelings, I thanked Augusta profusely and said it looked fascinating. She was primed for a long chat over the fence, the book merely providing an excuse for hailing me.
“—during the Renaissance,” she was saying, “in a grand green velvet gown all sewn with rubies and pearls, a handsome Venetian courtier walking beside me. Saw myself plain as day. There’re some as say it’s bloody nonsense—people always scoff—but if a famous and respectable American writer can claim she was George Eliot—”
I really wasn’t paying too much attention, but the husky gardener was eavesdropping shamelessly, his expression growing more and more incredulous as Augusta continued along the same line. I was impatient and eager to get to the shop, but I hadn’t the heart to interrupt her. The poor thing was lonely, rattling on at a rapid pace, as though she were afraid I would leave before she had a chance to finish. Wearing a light tan dress, multicolored beads jangling at neck and wrist, short steel-gray curls springing over her head in wild disarray, she continued her monologue with verve and vivacity, her dark-brown eyes sparkling with youthful zest. After she described her latest chat with the princess, the gardener shook his head, sighed audibly and turned back to his clipping, making a most unsightly gap in the privet hedge.
“What do you think of the murder?” she asked suddenly, breaking off her monologue. “Horrible business! Shocking! I’ve always said the Abbotstown police force wasn’t worth the powder it’d take to blow ’em up and this proves it. People being butchered left and right! I feel certain we’ll all wake up with our throats cut,” she continued blithely. “This morning’s paper gave a full account of the crime, and the police haven’t an inkling who might have done it. This town is full of ruffians! Not safe to walk the streets anymore! I intend to write a letter to the paper, not that it will do any good. Never does! Pots and pots of ink I’ve wasted, writing letters no one pays any attention to—”
She scowled, knitting her brows. I could visualize the kind of letters Augusta would write. The papers were inevitably filled with such missives, cranky, wildly exaggerated, decidedly eccentric, usually written by lonely souls who loved to see their names in print. They made wonderful reading on lazy Sunday afternoons. Augusta’s were certain to bristle with vitriolic phrases, I thought, as she continued to rattle on.
“… most unorthodox,” she said, lowering her voice dramatically. I had quite lost the thread of her talk. “Knocked on the door bold as brass, first thing this morning. Said he was an expert, said he’d work all day for nothing just to show me what he could do—” Suddenly realizing that she was referring to the “gardener,” I gave her my full attention. “Then, if I approved of his work, he’d come again tomorrow for regular wages. Well, I was suspicious, I don’t mind telling you, but if he wants to work twelve hours free of charge I’m not going to stop him. I know a bargain when I see one. He needn’t expect me to hire him tomorrow, though. People want to swindle themselves, I say let ’em. Hulking brute, isn’t he? Look at those shoulders, that mean face—”
Shears frozen in midair, mouth hanging open, the man in the brown windbreaker listened with mounting concern as a completely oblivious Augusta continued to talk about him, making no effort whatsoever to prevent his hearing her.
“… never trusted anyone with those slate-gray eyes. Criminal types, all of ’em. Looks like he would strangle you at the drop of a hat, doesn’t he? I’m not worried, though. Keep a fully loaded pistol in the house. Know how to use it, too. He might actually be a gardener—he’s been working since eight o’clock this morning, hasn’t made a false move—but if he thinks he’s gonna catch me off guard and slip in and steal the silver, he’s got another thought coming! Let ’im try it!” She turned to glare at him, and, expression benign, the poor man began to clip again with renewed industry. “I’m probably doing him an injustice,” she added generously, “but with people being murdered practically on your front doorstep it pays to be prepared.”
“I baked a honey nutcake this morning,” she said, a plaintive note entering her voice. “Thought I might have a caller, but that just goes to show what a fool I am. No one wants to spend any time with an old woman. People are too busy, can’t be bothered. Guess I shouldn’t expect it. You’re too busy chasing after your football chap, and Becky seems to have forgotten I exist. I don’t expect people to be grateful, don’t expect ’em to appreciate the pains I take to entertain them. I suppose the cake will go to waste—”
“I meant to call on you today,” I said guiltily, “but—”
“No, no, don’t make excuses, don’t protest. I understand perfectly. You can’t afford to waste time with anyone as old and decrepit as me. This is the age of youth—anyone over thirty’s over the hills, washed up, not worth considering. In my day we respected older people, found them full of fascinating viewpoints, loved to hear them talk, but times have changed. Youth has no respect! Very few morals, either, and speaking of morals—” Without pausing to draw breath, Augusta was off on another of her favorite tirades. It was several minutes before I could break in.
“That’s very interesting,” I said hurriedly. “I—I really must be on my way now, Augusta. Thanks ever so much for the book. I’m eager to read it. I—I’ll send Becky over for a game of cards as soon as I get back.”
Although she protested that she didn’t care, didn’t expect consideration, had long since resigned herself to being alone twenty-four hours a day with no one to talk to except the princess and certainly had no desire for anyone to visit her unless they really wanted to, Augusta seemed mollified by my promise and went back into the house with a cheerful spring in her walk. Clearly never having encountered anyone quite like her before, the man with the brick-red hair watched her departure with considerable dismay, shook his head in disbelief and studiously ignored me while I climbed into the car and backed out of the drive. However, as I pulled out into the street, I noticed him take a square black box out of his hip pocket and lift it to his lips, his eyes on the car as he mumbled into it. Shortly after I passed the university buildings, I was aware of a nondescript blue car following me, the man behind the wheel as broad shouldered and sturdy looking as the “gardener” had been. Augusta’s slanders to the contrary, the police force was obviously on its toes. I was relieved, all the more convinced I could go about my business without the least qualm.
I parked the car and wandered into The Shambles, feeling almost lighthearted. It was a sunspangled day, dazzlingly lovely, and the narrow cobbled streets were a riot of color and activity, tourists chattering like so many brightly hued birds and fluttering in and out of the mellow old buildings with great enthusiasm, pausing to buy postcards and souvenir plates, posing for one another beneath the picturesque painted wooden signs hanging over the pavement. Although I knew the buildings were much restored and the wares on sale prohibitively expensive, although the cobbled streets were quainter to look at than comfortable to actually walk on, The Shambles still retained a feeling of age, a sense of history. Henry the Eighth had sauntered down this narrow street, perhaps to buy a trinket for Anne Boleyn, and young Charles the Second and a dozen loyal cavaliers had met in the back parlor of the inn across the way to plan a surprise attack on Cromwell. I was still sentimental enough to find it all rather exciting, no matter how commercial it might be now.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a husky, stalwart-looking chap with unruly brown hair following me, his tan suit much too tight, his red tie flapping in the breeze. He was the same man who had been driving the nondescript blue car, unmistakably a policeman. When I stopped in front of the bookshop to gaze at the exquisite leather-bound books on display in the window, my shadow stopped, too, suddenly finding the violets in a flower cart of absorbing interest. I smiled and, as I stepped into the dress shop, gave him a friendly little wave. The man actually blushed.
There were very few customers in the shop. A chic Frenchwoman was arguing with the proprietor over the too-steep price of a shawl, claiming she could get the same thing in Paris for half the price, and the proprietor, calm, crisp, and very British, suggested she do so. Two American girls were examining cut-velvet hot pants, declaring them just the thing for Des Moines, Iowa. The Frenchwoman stormed out, still chic in her rage, and the girls pulled out their traveler’s checks and bought four pairs of pants each, a purchase that did much to sooth the proprietor’s ruffled feelings. When they left, she came over to the counter where I was browsing and asked if she could be of service. I said I wanted to try on the dress in the window. She looked surprised and told me how much it cost. I blanched but said I would still like to try it on. Scrutinizing me carefully, the woman felt it her duty to tell me the dress really wasn’t my style, perhaps she could show me something more suitable. I said I wanted the dress in the window.
Reluctantly, she fetched it, and I stepped into the changing room to try it on. It fit perfectly. It might have been made for me. Not my style, granted, the sort of garment an ultrasophisticated fashion model might wear, but, remembering Stephen Brent’s comments, I fully intended to buy it. The proprietor shook her head, but she sold it to me. She also sold me shoes, evening bag and wrap to go with it. I felt extremely guilty as I left the shop, knowing I had spent far, far too much, but I felt elated, too. So I’d have to subsist on the bare essentials for the next few months. So what? I was going to make a smashing appearance tonight.
The nondescript blue car followed me all the way home, and as I turned into the drive I waved again. Less shy this time, my shadow waved back, a wide grin on his face. It was all rather amusing, I thought cheerfully as I climbed out of the car, arms laden with packages. They were taking very good care of me. Preposterous to be afraid. I was determined to put it all out of my mind and enjoy the dance tonight.
There was the manuscript, of course, but even if my briefcase was never recovered, the loss wouldn’t be all that great. I had flown into hysterics at first, true, but that was mostly reaction. I didn’t have a carbon copy, but I did have a rough draft back in London that would serve almost as well. It would require very little polish, and I would have had to copy the work over again anyway before submitting it to Cass. I’d have to redo all the illustrations, but that would be simple enough, a couple of days’ work at the most. No, there was positively no reason why I should feel grim and depressed.
My peace of mind was soon to be shattered. I had just finished hanging up the dress and putting away shoes, bag and wrap when Becky sauntered into my bedroom. Her tennis shoes were grass-stained. She was wearing faded jeans and a dark yellow jersey. Her tattered gold locks framed a plump, saucy face, and her enormous brown eyes were alight with devilment. She was carrying a briefcase.
I recognized it immediately. It was mine.
“Look what I found,” she said.
“Becky—where—”
“I opened it. It’s yours, Janie. There are watercolors of Benny and his friends and the manuscript of your new book.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed. I couldn’t speak for a moment. I had to pull myself together. I mustn’t let her see how upset I was. Becky set the briefcase on the dressing table.
“I like the pictures,” she remarked casually, jamming her hands into her pockets, “but I can’t say I care for the story, at least what I read of it. ’Course, Benny bores me now. I couldn’t figure out what the briefcase was doing there at the old house, then I realized you must have gone for a walk, taking it with you, intending to write a few lines, then forgetting it when you walked back through the fields. Careless of you, Janie, I must say.”
“Where did you find it?” There was a tremor in my voice.
“At the old house. In the woods. I felt like taking a walk after I finished labeling my prints, and I just happened to end up there.”
“Becky, you weren’t supposed to—”
“I know,” she said wearily. “Keith stuck his head out of the potting shed and yel
led at me, told me to stay in the garden, but I never pay any attention to what he says. I slipped off as soon as he started tinkering with his machine again. What’s the matter? You look pale.”
“You—you shouldn’t have done that, Becky.”
“If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have gotten your briefcase back,” she replied reasonably. “I didn’t know you knew about the old house, Janie. Isn’t it something—all those bats and things. I used to play there lots when I was—” She paused, knitting her brows as she examined my face. “You mean you didn’t leave it there? You don’t even know where the house is, do you?”
I shook my head, not trusting myself to answer.
Becky was extremely mystified, a puzzled look in her eyes, and then she smiled, the truth dawning. “I know what must have happened—you left it in the fields, and some tramp came along and thought it might be valuable and took it to the house. I’ll bet he was surprised when he saw it was just a bunch of papers and things. Good thing for you he just left it there on the floor. He coulda burned it or something.”
“Most fortunate—” I agreed shakily.
“That musta been what happened,” she concluded.
I didn’t deny it. Her explanation was logical enough, far better than any I could have invented myself.
Meet a Dark Stranger Page 14
