by Kris Langman
Blackmail. The word leapt into Anne’s mind the second the teacher finished. As they turned and started the walk back to the Administration building she stretched and pulled the idea to see if it fit the facts. Yes, it made perfect sense. Dr. Davidson found out that Jimmy Soames had killed this ten year old boy. Possibly Jimmy had admitted it during a counseling session. The Soames family was very wealthy. Jimmy would have made an ideal candidate for blackmail. The doctor must have been furious when Jimmy was murdered. Someone had cut off his money supply.
“It couldn’t have been that fascinating.”
“What?” Anne looked up, startled to find herself back at the Administration building and face to face with Dr. Davidson.
“The tour of the campus. I suspect Kenneth the tour guide is just as soporific as Kenneth the lecturer.”
“Possibly,” said the professor acidly, “but I believe Miss Lambert was entertained by my last topic. I was telling her about that police investigation we had years ago. That young boy who was strangled. You remember, Davidson. You were here at the time.”
“Yes, I was,” said the doctor, looking thoughtfully at Anne.
Anne could feel herself begin to sweat with the effort to maintain a neutral expression. It wasn’t until the doctor turned away to greet an approaching Lady Soames that she realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled sharply and followed Lady Soames and the doctor as they walked back to the Bentley.
Carstairs was standing by the car waiting for them.
“Have you seen Daniel?” Lady Soames barked at him.
“No ma’am, I haven’t. I’ll go search for him if you like.”
“Do that,” snapped Lady Soames. “The Bishop and his wife are coming over for tea in less than an hour. If we keep them waiting I’ll never hear the end of it. That woman will make sure the entire county knows. I’ve never met anyone so fond of gossiping about her betters.”
They made it back in time for tea. The Bishop and his wife arrived just as Carstairs entered the Music Room bearing chicken salad sandwiches on an enormous silver tray. He set this down with a flourish onto a damask-covered table in the middle of the room. Seven chairs with matching petit-point embroidered seats were grouped loosely around the table. Anne selected one at the outer edge of the group and awaited developments. She wasn’t sure of the protocol here – did you just grab a sandwich, or wait to be served? Better to wait and copy the actions of someone else – though not Daniel, who had thrown himself onto a tufted leather couch at the far end of the room and immediately begun to snore. Everyone else politely took their seats and waited for Lady Soames to take the lead. She signaled to Carstairs, who distributed cups of Earl Grey and plates stacked with sandwiches, cream-filled scones, and bite-size chocolate gateau which reminded Anne of Ding-Dongs.
Anne munched quietly and watched as the new arrivals made their obeisance to Lady Soames. The Bishop was a large, vague man dressed in a conventional business suit. He apparently felt he’d done his share by kissing the hand of his hostess. After this feat he sat crumbling a scone and staring fixedly at the carpet. His wife, wrapped in a striking silver fox coat which she refused to remove, felt it her duty to make up the verbal slack created by her husband. She talked incessantly throughout the meal, patting her blonde beehive and taking tiny nibbles of her sandwich without stopping for breath. Their house near Leeds Castle was her main topic. Each time she mentioned this paragon of the decorator’s arts its nearness to the Castle increased. By the end of the meal she and the Bishop were on the cusp of installing themselves in the Castle’s Keep, tour groups be damned. After all, it was good enough for Lady Baillie.
After surviving tea with the Bishop’s wife Anne felt in need of some solitude. She excused herself to take a walk around the grounds. Lady Soames seemed grateful to be relieved of the burden of entertaining her, Daniel was still snoring in the Music Room, and Lord Soames was nowhere to be found. The only threat to her plan was Dr. Davidson, who looked ready to accompany her until Lady Soames beckoned to him with a bony hand. When Anne was sure that he was safely in the clutches of Lady Soames and the Bishop’s wife she made good her escape. She donned her parka, which Carstairs produced as if by magic, zipped it up against the cold March afternoon, and slipped out the front door. She patted one of the stone lions on the head and halted at the bottom of the steps. The gravel at her feet was mottled with small puddles. She titled her head back and looked up at the sky. It was only 4:00 p.m., but clouds heavy with unshed rain had bullied the sun into hiding. It was gloomy walking weather, but anything was better than listening to the Bishop’s wife expound on Kent property values.
Anne turned to her left towards the lake. She strolled along a strip of lawn speckled with dandelions, her shoes making squelching noises in the wet grass. The house's many windows stared down at her as if warning her not to return, but soon the house was left behind as the grass gave way to a gravel path. Anne continued along this as it followed the curve of the lake. She wound through a thicket of aspens, their leaves rustling in the damp breeze. Tiny bluebells waved in the uncut grass under the trees. The path ran over a small hill, and then halted at the edge of the water, where a wooden pier jutted out into the lake.
Anne walked out to the end of the pier, its planks creaking with each step. It was peaceful out over the water. She perched on a tar-stained post and listened to the silence. The estate was so far back from the road that traffic noises didn’t penetrate. She couldn’t see the house anymore. A small spit of land covered with aspen and fir blocked her view. No clipped lawn bordered the lake here. The landscape had been left wild and trees came down to the edge of the water.
A tiny quack broke the silence. Anne leaned forward, but didn’t see any ducks on the lake. She pushed herself off the post and knelt at the edge of the pier. Leaning on her elbows she craned her neck until she could see underneath. There. A mallard and her three babies were clustered together against the post Anne had been sitting on. The mother began quacking loudly, startled by Anne’s shadow floating toward them over the water.
“Sshhh. It’s okay,” said Anne to the duck. The duck refused to be soothed, and herded her brood farther under the pier. Anne stretched forward but soon lost sight of them, the last duckling paddling furiously after its mother like a tiny wind-up toy.
Anne started to straighten up, her arms feeling the strain of leaning at such a sharp angle, when suddenly she felt a violent shove on her back. She lost her balance and fell face first into the water.
The lake was freezing cold and dense with algae. The muddy bottom sucked at Anne’s feet. She surfaced, gasping and spitting water. Her first instinct was to swim, but her thrashing feet hit the bottom of the lake and she realized that it was shallow enough to stand. She stopped kicking and straightened her legs. The water came up to her chin. She coughed again and shoved a clump of wet hair out of her eyes. What a nasty practical joke, she thought as she headed for the pier. Daniel. It seemed like something he would do. Maybe his twisted little mind considered this payback for refusing to help him get his precious Mercedes back from the police.
Anne put a hand on the edge of the pier and looked up. She couldn’t see anyone, but the boards were creaking. Someone was there. She glanced down, looking for a foothold on the post. Suddenly she felt something on the top of her head. It was a hand, pushing her down. It was so unexpected that she lost her grip on the post and slid under the water. The hand followed. She reached up, trying to dislodge it, but it was too strong. She was panicking, swallowing dirty lake water, but she had just enough rational thought left to try moving sideways, away from the hand. She felt the pressure on her head lessen and pushed desperately against the lake bottom, trying to get her head above water. She managed it for just an instant, gasping and choking, before she felt the hand grip her by the shoulder and push her under again. This time she couldn’t free herself from its grip. The water churned from her struggles, and then grew still.
Chapter Seven
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nbsp; It was dark. Open your eyes you idiot, thought Anne. Better. Not dark yet, but getting there. It must be about 5:00 p.m. The short March afternoon was rapidly fading to evening. She yawned. It was a strange time for a nap. And a strange place. She was not in her own bed. This one was much more posh, with a pale pink satin quilt and tall bedposts at each corner. She glanced around foggily, the brown leather of her overnight bag catching her eye. Oh, right. She was in Lady Soames’ bed. Er, Lady Soames’ guest bedroom. But what was she doing there at five in the afternoon? And why was her hair wet?
Movement. Over by the door. Anne struggled to sit up, her heart racing but her body moving in slow motion. A sharp pain shot through her left wrist. The cast was missing.
“It’s okay Miss Lambert. I’m PC Ridley. How are you feeling?” The police constable who approached her was a blonde woman of about thirty, wearing a uniform but missing her hat, which Anne noticed on a chair by the door.
“Um, I feel okay, I guess. A bit muddled. Why am I in bed? And why are the police here?”
“I’ll let the Inspector tell you that. I take it you don’t remember what happened.”
“Happened? What do you mean?”
The constable didn’t answer. She went to the door and leaned out into the hallway. Anne saw her wave to someone. A few seconds later voices approached.
“Turner, go supervise. Make sure no one tramples the ground around the lake. We should get some good shoe prints from that mud.”
Anne dragged herself to a sitting position as the voice came nearer. She noticed she was wearing an unfamiliar flannel nightgown. Someone had taken her shoes off and tucked towels and a hot-water bottle around her. Her legs and the sheets of the bed were streaked with mud and some kind of green stuff that looked like spinach. Anne shivered. She grabbed one of the towels and wrapped it around her shoulders and then pulled the pink satin bedspread up to her chin.
“Constable, take notes please,” said a short man in an overcoat as he bustled into the room. Anne took this to be the Inspector. He was an average-looking gentleman of about fifty-five, with brown hair which was losing a battle with gray invaders.
“How do you do Miss Lambert. I’m Inspector Northam of the Kent Constabulary.” He politely extended his hand, which Anne shook uncertainly. “As you might expect,” the Inspector continued, “I need to ask you some questions about what happened.”
“What exactly did happen?” asked Anne.
“Well, I was hoping you could tell us. Do you remember anything at all?”
Anne frowned and stared down at the bedspread. She was trying not to panic, but she could feel her heart racing again and her breath beginning to shorten. This was worse than the concussion she’d had after the car had hit her. She had felt disoriented then, but she’d remembered what had happened to her. This time she couldn’t, and it was terrifying. A small piece of her life was missing.
The Inspector tried again. “What is the last thing you remember?”
Anne looked up at him blankly, then let her gaze roam around the room as she tried to think. “We went to the school. Wyndham Preparatory. No, wait. After that there was tea in the dining room, with the Bishop. I remember his wife and Leeds Castle. After tea I went out for a walk. I remember walking along the edge of the lake.”
“What time did you leave the house?”
“About 4:00. I remember that clearly, because I was so bored at tea that I was watching the clock.”
“Right. 4:00 o’clock. You left the house, started walking along the lake . . . and then what?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Then I woke up here in this room.”
The Inspector’s shoulders slumped. Anne could tell that he was disappointed. She felt guilty, as if she’d let him down. She mentally whacked herself upside the head, trying to shake loose a few more memories, but nothing came.
“Someone tried to drown you,” said the Inspector quietly.
Anne stared at him in shock, her green eyes dark in her white face. “Who . . .” she whispered.
“We don’t know who. We also don’t know why. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to harm you?”
“No,” replied Anne.
“Can I ask you why you’ve come for a visit here? Are you a friend of the Soames? A relative?”
“No. Neither,” replied Anne. The Inspector’s eyebrows went up in surprise at this. “Lady Soames sent me an invitation to come for the weekend. I . . . I think she felt bad about the accident, and she invited me as a sort of apology.” That was safe ground. The car accident was public knowledge, the police in London knew about it. No one here at the house could accuse her of making wild accusations.
“What accident?” asked the Inspector.
“I was hit by a car, in London, about two weeks ago. That’s why I had a cast on my left arm. My wrist was broken.”
Inspector Northam turned toward the constable. “Dr. Hopkirk removed the cast sir. It was disintegrating from the lake water.”
“I see,” said the Inspector, turning back to Anne. “Now, why would Lady Soames feel it necessary to apologize for this accident? Was she driving the car which hit you?”
“No,” said Anne carefully. “But the car did belong to her son. To Daniel.”
“Ah. Well, that makes sense then. Lady Soames was trying to apologize for her son’s bad driving. Doesn’t explain why anyone would try to drown you, though. I suppose it could have been a random attack, some lunatic who wandered onto the estate grounds. That would certainly be the most convenient solution,” said the Inspector, doubt heavy in his voice.
“Are you sure I was attacked?” asked Anne. “I mean, maybe I just fell into the lake by accident. Hit my head on a rock or something and was knocked unconscious.”
“No, it was not an accident,” said the Inspector. He pointed at her left shoulder. “Take a look there.”
Anne glanced at him doubtfully, then pulled the flannel nightgown off her shoulder. A deep red mark, the size of a man’s hand, was shockingly dark against her skin.
“Someone held you under the water. You were found floating face down, bumping up against one of the posts of a small pier on the east side of the lake. It was Carstairs who saw you. He has a break from his duties after teatime, and it’s his habit to take a daily walk around the lake. There’s a path which goes all the way round and ends at the main drive. Anyway, he spotted something floating in the water when he reached the pier. He pulled you out and did his best to administer CPR. He’s no doctor, of course, but he takes a course offered by the Red Cross each year. He knew enough of the basics to get you breathing again. One of our local medics, Dr. Hopkirk, lives just down the road so Carstairs called him rather than the emergency services. The doctor checked you out and pronounced you fit enough to be tucked up in bed here rather than be sent to hospital. I don’t mind telling you that him and I had words about that. It was very irregular. An ambulance should have been called. I suspect one of the family had a hand in it. The Soames wield a lot of power in this county. Local people tend to do what the family tells them.”
Anne frowned. “But I’m okay, aren’t I? I mean, should I be concerned about brain damage and all that?”
“The doctor estimated that you’d been unconscious for less than a minute. Not enough to cause brain damage, though if I were you I’d get myself to an A & E in a hospital in London and have them check me out. Your memory loss is a bit disturbing. Haven’t dealt with many drowning cases, so I don’t know if it’s a common side effect.”
“Sir,” said PC Ridley, who had been standing behind him quietly taking notes, “my last posting was on the Cornish coast. St. Ives. As you’d expect we had a lot of boating accidents and swimmers in trouble. Short term memory loss is frequently seen in near-drownings. It’s caused by lack of oxygen to the brain.”
The Inspector listened to her carefully. “Thank you constable. Miss Lambert does not seem to be exhibiting any other symptoms, at least to my untrained eye. What do you thin
k?”
Anne found herself scrutinized by PC Ridley’s calm blue eyes. “Disorientation and an altered mental state can occur in cases where the victim has been in the water for three minutes or more. Like yourself, I’m no medical expert, but I would say that Miss Lambert has not shown any sign of these.”
“Quite. Well, this chat has been rather inconclusive,” remarked the Inspector. He took a pad of yellow post-it notes out of his coat pocket, wrote something on the top sheet, and pulled it off. He handed this to Anne. “Never remember to carry business cards. These are my work and home numbers. Speaking of phone numbers, I want to give London a ring. Someone up there must have investigated your car accident. Do you have any contact details you can give me?”
“I don’t know her phone number, but the name of the officer who talked to me in the hospital was Inspector Beckett. She was from the Bishopsgate station. A constable was there also, but I can’t remember his name.”
“Not a problem. That’s enough to be going on with. That doctor, what’s his name, Davidson, gave us your address. If you could just jot down your home and office phone numbers.”
Anne took the post-it pad he offered and wrote down the numbers. She was handing the pad back to him when a uniformed officer rushed into the room.
“Sir, we’ve got a bit of a situation downstairs. Sergeant Turner is there, but he’s in over his head if you ask me. You’d better come down.”
