Nevertheless, I braced myself before I went downstairs, as though some sort of battle lay ahead of me. If this had been an ordinary visit, I would have enjoyed it, no matter what the atmosphere. I could have remained curious, but uninvolved. As things were, purpose must lie behind every move I made. I was here to find out, not only about Judith Rhodes, but about myself, and there was no time to be wasted. Even in this coming dinner encounter, I must watch and listen, and try to find the right questions to ask without ever betraying the true reason for my asking.
When I reached the living room, I found the three men standing before the fire, glasses in hand, clearly engaged in a conversation that could not have been cheerful. Herndon looked grimmer than ever, Evan angry, and even John had lost his cheerful air. They all turned and looked at me, pausing in their talk, and I knew that I was anything but welcome at that moment.
It was John who smiled first and came toward me. He was a tall man, with a handsome, rather saturnine look and flyaway eyebrows that could be cocked mockingly, and were less silver-blond than the hair above. Yet there was an ease about him which the other two lacked.
“We’ll be glad for your company at the table tonight, Courtney Marsh,” he said. “Stacia and Judith have decided to have their meals upstairs. Judith often does so, and Stacia isn’t feeling well. So we need you badly.”
His light touch was exactly right, helping me to relax, and in response the other two attempted to throw off the gloom which seemed to weigh them down. I accepted the glass of Dubonnet that John brought me, accepted his compliment about my dress, and recognized that he was not ignorant on the subject of fashion. John Rhodes was more of a cosmopolitan than anyone else in this house.
Yet of the three, it was Herndon who managed the most interesting sartorial touches, even though, in him, they were unexpected. Tonight, he wore under his jacket a smart, saffron-colored silk jersey turtleneck, modified for evening, that contrasted with the less imaginative clothes of the other two. Once more, I found myself wondering what this meant in Herndon. Vanity? He didn’t seem a vain man. An effort to keep up with his dramatic and colorful wife? Perhaps. I couldn’t decide.
When we went into the dining room John seated me in the place at the table’s foot, opposite Herndon at the other end—undoubtedly the place which would belong to Judith when she came downstairs to dine. Candles had been lighted in crystal holders down the table, and old linen damask shone in a patina of pale light.
In those days when servants had abounded, Asher would have had others under him, doing his bidding. Now he served us himself, very correct, a little stiff in his joints, and decidedly dour of expression. I gathered that only Asher and his wife lived in the house. The cook and the housemaids came in from the village to take care of their duties, and went home at night.
Unlike the living room, the dark woodwork of the dining room had been left in its original state—perhaps because this was a truly rich and handsome room, with the dignity of another century that no one had wanted to tamper with. Again the ceiling was enormously high, and the windows on the ocean side correspondingly tall, with yards of burgundy draperies pulled across against the night. Above low mahogany paneling, raspberry wallpaper rose to the plate rail, where examples of Spode and Sèvres and Meissen were on display. The sideboard too was mahogany and huge, with a well-polished Georgian silver service set upon its top. In one corner stood an impressive glass cabinet filled with china and crystal.
All these things, I suspected, must have belonged for generations to the Rhodes family, and I wondered what would happen to them now, if the place, as Herndon had intimated, was to be sold. So few families had roots in the past these days that I already found myself regretting that this should happen. Perhaps this feeling was due to my own eagerness to belong to a real family, and if it was to be this one, I didn’t want to see it dispersed so soon after I’d found it.
John was the only one who made much of an effort at conversation, drawing me out about my work on the magazine. We found that we had mutual friends in New York and it was easy to slip into small talk with him. Herndon appeared lost in a world of his own—concerned with matters I had no knowledge of, while Evan Faulkner was probably still harboring an anger that had nothing to do with me, and yet which caused me to feel the flick of it when he spoke. I wondered if Herndon knew that Evan had struck his daughter.
Once Herndon roused himself to somewhat stiff conversational effort, nodding toward the portrait of a woman that hung over the sideboard. “You were asking about members of the Rhodes family, Miss Marsh. That is a portrait of Alice Rhodes. When was it done, John?”
John did not look at the picture. “It was painted just after we were married. I never, thought it a very good likeness.”
I glanced up at the portrait, and the brown eyes of the girl who had posed for it seemed to meet mine quizzically. She wore a pale blue dress, with a touch of pink at the throat, and there was a pink rose in her brown hair. One cheek barely dimpled in a smile, and the portrait seemed to suggest that she might burst into gay laughter at any moment.
“I can remember her like that when she was very young,” Herndon said. “But it’s true that she was never a ‘sweet Alice.’ She was much more of a person than that.”
“She was still young when she died,” John said bleakly.
I wanted to ask how she had died, but this wasn’t the time. Apparently John Rhodes had never married again.
Strangely enough, however, through soup and roast and salad, to the custards we were served for dessert, it was not Herndon and John who held my most interested attention—but Evan Faulkner, who was not a Rhodes at all. Once or twice I tried to draw him into talk about his work out at the lab in Montauk, but his resentment of me, somehow begun when he had seen me on television last night, seemed to have deepened, and his answers were in monosyllables, so that I gave up. I hadn’t liked him in the beginning, and there was no reason to like him now, yet some perverse impulse in me kept trying to reach him. Why?—to stir up the sleeping tiger? I didn’t like brutal, insensitive men. But as a reporter, a writer, I was seeking an answer to the antagonism that burned between this husband and wife.
Only once did he take me by surprise. I had given up trying to talk to him, and was lost in my own thoughts when I realized that Evan had asked me a question, and I hadn’t been listening. I blinked into the waiting silence, forced to apologize.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you asked.”
His dark eyes regarded me steadily. “I was merely wondering aloud whether you would put anything about the Rhodes family and its history into the article you are going to write.”
“That would be irrelevant,” Herndon said quickly. “Judith is a Rhodes only by marriage.”
I wondered at this quick attempt to discourage me. After all, he had told me something of the family.
“I haven’t decided about that,” I said quietly. “It depends on how things fit in. I don’t like to discard anything until I’m sure it doesn’t belong.”
“The Rhodes have an interesting history,” Evan said, as if he had at last decided to acknowledge my presence. “I suppose it’s having my roots here in the Hamptons area that makes me want to see it preserved. That’s what I’m trying to do now. If you’ve any interest, Miss Marsh, stop in the library sometime and I’ll show you some of the materials on whaling. John can add a lot to this background as well.”
I wondered why Evan was urging this upon me, but when I glanced at John he smiled at me easily. “Anything you want to know, of course. Sometimes I think Evan is more interested in all this whaling history than we are.”
I wasn’t sure what I wanted to know, but at least Evan Faulkner had made a civilized offer and I thanked him for it. If I went to the library to learn more about the Rhodes and the past, it would be for reasons he could not suspect.
We had nearly finished the meal, and I was lookin
g forward to escaping upstairs, when Asher came into the room, clearly agitated. He carried a salver on which lay a plain envelope, to place it before Herndon.
“It’s another one, sir,” Asher said. “I just found it.”
Herndon regarded the envelope as he might have regarded a snake that could raise its head to strike at him.
“You’d better open it,” John said quietly.
Herndon made no move to slit the envelope. “It might be wiser to burn it unread.”
“Open it,” Evan said. “It may give us some clue about the sender.”
Herndon ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of cheap, lined paper inside. Then he looked up at Asher.
“Where did you find it?”
“Someone pushed it under the front door, sir,” Asher said. “I was going through the hall and I saw it. I don’t know how long it was there. No one was about when I looked outside.”
“If there are any more, bring them to me at once,” Herndon told him. “Not to anyone else. And take care that they don’t reach Mrs. Rhodes.”
“Of course, sir.” Asher bowed his gray head and went off, though I suspected he would have liked to stay to see what would happen next.
“Well, what’s in it?” John demanded. “What does it say this time?”
Herndon tapped the sheet before him. “There’s just one word. Letters cut out of a newspaper again and pasted on ruled paper. They spell ‘Anabel?’ with a question mark added. That’s all.”
Evan said, “That could refer to the boat, of course.”
“Not coming on the heels of the last note. I don’t think so.”
“Let’s see it.” John held out his hand.
Herndon gave the sheet to him and glanced in my direction. “I’m sorry, Miss Marsh. You might as well know that someone has started a series of anonymous notes which arrive at our door, without anyone seeing who brings them. Probably it’s no more than malicious mischief.”
“Mischief from someone who knows a remarkable lot about the family,” Evan said. “You should show them to the police, as I’ve said before.”
“No!” Coming from the quiet banker, the word was unexpectedly explosive. “I won’t have Judith troubled with this sort of thing. She had to know about the first one because she was present when it came, but I would prefer it if you don’t mention that there’s been a second. Not any of you.”
His manner was still formal and a little stiff, but there was no missing the underlying force. As I listened, I grew increasingly puzzled about the relationship between Herndon and John. Curiously, even though John was the older, Herndon seemed to be in charge, and the problem in hand was being deferred to him.
Evan was watching me, and when I caught his look it seemed to challenge me. “You understand, Miss Marsh, that this affair is off the record as far as you are concerned.” He spoke coldly.
“Of course,” I agreed.
John’s smile was reassuring. “I don’t think we need worry about Courtney. And let’s dispense with this ‘Miss Marsh’ formality. The young lady is going to be part of the family for the time being—undoubtedly treated to our innermost secrets. So let’s relax with her a little. I know her writing and she doesn’t do hatchet jobs.”
“Thank you, John,” I said.
“In any case,” he went on, “we all know that Judith did everything she could at the time these events occurred. What happened wasn’t her fault.”
“She still remembers,” Herndon said. “It’s vicious to open old wounds like this.”
“You might consider that the wounds are mine too,” John said.
Herndon sighed. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”
Evan reached across the table to take the note from John and examined it carefully. He seemed to exert a certain authority in this family, and he was listened to. “Since you don’t want to go to the police with these, the only thing you can do is ignore them. Either the purpose behind the mischief will become evident, or whoever is playing tricks will tire of it and it will stop.”
“I don’t know.” Herndon was staring up at the portrait of his dead sister-in-law.
“Is there anything—well—in doubt about that time when she died?” Evan went on. “Anything someone who disliked the Rhodes could make something of? The first note referred to Alice.”
“There has always been gossip, of course,” Herndon said. “But it had no base. What happened was a double tragedy, but simple enough in each case.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about,” Evan assured him. “There’s no real harm being done, as John says, and from now on we’ll tip the help off to be on the watch, and both Asher and his wife can keep an eye out. Miss Marsh—”
“Please make it Courtney,” I said, backing John up.
Evan gave me a thin smile. “Of course, Courtney. I was about to suggest that you say nothing to Judith about this—as the others won’t either.”
He had not really softened toward me. His dark look challenged any opposition I might offer, and I felt the force of a will that would brook no contradiction. It was a look that gave me no trust, in spite of his use of my first name, and I resented it strongly.
“I’ve already said I won’t use any of this, and of course I won’t talk about it with Judith, if that’s what you wish.”
Herndon pushed back his chair, closing the subject without further comment, and we left the table.
I excused myself on the score of being tired, and started toward the stairs. I had had enough of uncomfortable undercurrents for one day, and I wanted to spend the rest of the evening alone. In my room there were books to read, but mainly I wanted to do a little sorting out when I was by myself. For reasons that I could not yet understand, I seemed to have stepped into a household stricken by more than anonymous messages. Some crisis seemed to be approaching, but its tide lay beneath the surface, its causes and meanings well hidden from my outsider’s view. Whether this was anything that concerned me as a possible member of the family, I couldn’t tell. I had no interest in using such private matters in my piece about Judith—but I had a great deal of interest in them in the event that I was involved.
In any case, I climbed the stairs feeling increasingly depressed and discouraged. I, who had never known a family of my own blood, had built over the years an imaginary picture of what such a family should be like. None of that felicitous fancy appeared to exist in this household.
When I reached the upper landing, I was brought sharply out of my puzzling to find the dog, Tudor, stretched with his great mottled body across my path, looking down at me with antipathy in every muscle.
His tail did not thump when I tried to speak to him, and his black lip drew back unpleasantly from his teeth. A now familiar growl warned me, so that I turned away hastily, to discover John Rhodes at the foot of the stairs.
“It’s all right,” he assured me. “Tudor’s not used to you yet. Come down, boy—come down at once.”
At least the dog obeyed commands. He arose with swift grace and pushed past me down the stairs, so that I was thrust against the banister and felt the warmth of his great body as he rushed by. John gave him a pat on the flank and Tudor headed for the back of the house.
“I’m sorry,” John said, his smile reassuring. “Well see to it that Tudor is tied up after this, when he’s not with Judith. Have a good sleep, and forget about the Rhodes or they’ll give you nightmares.”
I tried to return his smile, but my lips felt stiff, and I ran up the stairs quickly and hurried down the hall to my room. There I met with new disquiet. My door was ajar, though I knew I had left it closed. I pushed it open cautiously and looked into the room. Stacia Faulkner lay stretched upon the patchwork quilt on the bed, her arms behind her head, and her bruised cheek clearly in view as she turned her head to look at me.
“Hello,” she said. “I hope you don�
��t mind my waiting for you here.”
4
I was not altogether pleased to find myself with a visitor—and particularly not with Stacia. I had looked forward to being alone, yet on the other hand she might be the one to tell me more about this curious household.
“I don’t mind,” I said, and went to drop into the gold-upholstered wing chair, waiting to hear what she wanted.
Stacia raised herself on an elbow, regarding me with large, rather luminous blue eyes. “That’s a beautiful dress.” Her tone was almost wistful, and I wondered why. Beautiful gowns would hardly be a rarity to this girl, who didn’t need to work for her clothes as I did. “But it’s lost in a place like this,” she went on. “Wasted.” She did not add “on a man like Evan,” but I sensed that she was thinking of her husband.
“You didn’t seek me out to talk about dresses,” I said.
“No—you’re right. What do you think of us so far, Courtney Marsh?”
“I don’t know enough about you to think much of anything,” I told her.
“I’ll bet that’s not true!” she challenged. “I think you’re already liking and disliking, taking sides. And perhaps wrongly.”
“I’m open to suggestions.” Stacia was nearly my age, yet sometimes she seemed younger, more vulnerable than I would have expected.
“I can tell you one thing,” she said. “Uncle John is the only real human being in this house.”
“Are you discounting your father and mother?”
“Judith doesn’t care about anything but her painting, and my father doesn’t care about anything except her. Perhaps you need to know this before you start talking to her.”
The Golden Unicorn Page 6
