Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  I unlocked the door and opened it cautiously. I did not dare light a lamp. He might see that. For all I knew he was still up. I would have to move under a cover of darkness.

  I closed the door to my room behind me and stood for a moment with my hand still on the doorknob. I hesitated, still weak from the drug. The hall was dark, a long black tunnel infested with grayish shadows, and it did not seem possible that I could force myself to walk down it without a light. The air about me was inhabited with my own fear, and I felt my fingers tremble as they held the cold brass doorknob. I had to do it. For Lucy, I told myself. I was not bold. I was not brave. I was merely determined. I braced myself and started down the hall, staying close to the wall, moving very slowly.

  I knocked against a small table I had forgotten was there. A vase rocked noisily, and my fingers flew out in the darkness to steady it. I held my breath, certain that the noise had awakened everyone. There was no noise of investigation, no opening doors and lighted lamps. The sound must have been magnified by my own sense of caution. I walked on down the hall, groping my way slowly in the darkness.

  When I came to the staircase that led downstairs, I paused. There was a light burning in the hall. I could see just a faint glow from it from where I stood. If there was a light, it meant someone was up. I could not go down here. I could not risk detection. If Norman Wade were downstairs, he would try and stop me from leaving the house. If it were someone else, they would ask questions which I was in no condition to answer. I would have to go down another staircase.

  I thought about the closed wing. On down the hall was the staircase that led down into it, and at the end of the wing there was the staircase that led on down to the level where the servants stayed, coming down just over Lucy’s little room. There was an exit from the servants’ quarters that led out into the backyard. I could go through the closed wing, down the staircase and get outside without anyone seeing me. I shuddered at the thought of entering that musty, closed part of the house with its cobwebs and mildew and sheeted furniture, but it was the only way open to me.

  I walked on down the hall, trying to ignore all the noises that were so much a part of Falconridge. The windows rattled, and branches of the trees beat against them like fists pounding on the glass. The old floorboards creaked, no matter how cautiously I walked, and there was a scurrying sound like something moving behind the wainscotting. The stiff crinoline of my underskirts rustled loudly with a noise like whispers, and the faint echoes of my own movements reverberated down the hall, giving me the sensation of being followed.

  It was hard to believe that this was real. It was like a vivid nightmare that must surely end when I awoke in my own bed to see the sun coming into my room. The musty odors, the damp walls, the sounds all around me must surely be part of that nightmare. My head was reeling, and I had to stop and lean against the wall to keep from fainting. I stood motionless in the darkness, a darkness that seemed alive, closing in on me, and it took all my will power not to scream.

  Norman Wade was a murderer. He was in this house. He was planning to send me away. He was going to steal Helena’s money, and he would succeed in all this unless I forced myself to go on. There could be no turning back now. I could rest later. Later I could sleep and sleep and try to forget all this, but now I must go on. I must get out of the house, and I must get to the village somehow. Somehow I must get help before it was too late.

  I started down the staircase that led into the closed wing. How well I remembered that first time I had come down it, my first night at Falconridge. I had been frightened by the billowing sheets that covered the furniture, and Martha Victor had terrified me when I saw her standing there in the shadows. I remembered how the old stairs had creaked. They creaked now. The wood of the banister was rotten, and it gave as I ran my hand over it. I was afraid to lean on it. The wood would surely shatter and I would be hurled to the floor below. It seemed hours before I reached the landing.

  There was moonlight here on the first floor. The draperies had been removed from the windows, and the light came pouring through. The windows were like squares of silver. The light drifted through them in misty rays that floated with millions of tiny particles of dust. Not a breath of air stirred. The great room was a nest of blue-black shadows that stroked the walls like gigantic black hands. The white sheets covering the furniture stood out against the shadows. I could see strands of cobweb. The smell was almost unbearable, composed of dust and mildew and ancient wax and decay. If Falconridge was a living thing, this part of it was dead, an arm that had withered and rotted away.

  I paused only a moment, surveying the room, then hurried across the floor. The carpets had been rolled up, and my heels clattered loudly on the bare floor, but the noise did not bother me now. No one would be anywhere about in this part of the house, certainly not near enough to hear any noise I might make.

  I went through one room, then another, each clammy, closed up, the furniture covered with old sheets. The hardest part was behind me. I would soon find the staircase that led down to the servants’ quarters, and I would be almost free. Once outside, nothing would stop me. I came to a closed door. I tried to open it. This wing was a series of rooms that led one into another in a straight line, and unless I could get the door open I would be defeated. I shoved against it with all my might, my hand twisting the doorknob. The door was locked. It would not budge. How strange, I thought. Why should this door be locked when all the others were open, held back with doorstops. It was odd.

  I froze. Someone was behind the door. I could hear footsteps moving towards it from the other side. I stepped back. There was a little line of yellow showing beneath the door. Someone had a lamp. I heard the key turning in the lock. The door opened slowly. The hinges creaked loudly. Charles Lloyd stood there, one eyebrow arched inquisitively. He wore the black brocade dressing robe with quilted blue satin lapels that I remembered so well. His heavy blond hair was disarrayed, and his face was a little rumpled from sleep.

  I did not scream. I was suddenly very calm. Things tumbled together in my mind. Little particles that had been jumbled before fell into place now, and everything was clear. This explained the missing food. Martha Victor must have been bringing it to him every day. And here was Lucy’s “ghost.” She had seen him. She had known that he was in the house. She had died because of this knowledge. Only three people could command Hugo: Norman Wade, Charles Lloyd and Andrew Graystone. Andrew Graystone was dead.

  “Well, my dear,” he said. “It seems you never learn. How many times did I warn you about prowling around? And now you have gotten into quite a predicament, yes, quite a predicament indeed.”

  “I can see now why you didn’t want me prowling about. I might have disturbed you and Lavinia during one of your trysts.

  “You know about that?”

  “I guessed it. Did Lavinia wear a black cloak when she came to Falconridge?”

  “You’re quite right. She did. If she was covered with black, it would be harder to see her as she came in and out.”

  “And that’s why you didn’t fire Andrew Graystone. That’s why you let him get away with such disasterous mismanagement. He knew about your affair with his wife, and as long as he kept his job he would say nothing about it.”

  “Right again. A thoroughly detestable man. I was not sorry when I killed him.”

  “You killed him the day of the ball,” I said. “You carried his body to the boathouse and put it in The Falcon. The scene when Lavinia came running in during the storm was carefully rehearsed.”

  “She is a superb actress,” he remarked.

  “I should have known before,” I said. “I should have guessed that day in Devon when she was so uneasy about meeting me. You had been together in London, hadn’t you. She took an earlier train than we did, got off at Devon and then ‘accidently’ met us there. She was nervous, afraid I would notice something. She had no sister in Devon. That was all part of the plan.”

  “You are a remarkably intelligent y
oung lady,” my uncle said. He smiled, his lips merely turning up at the corners. His eyes were burning darkly, and a muscle in his cheek twitched. “Unfortunately so, I am afraid. Too bad you couldn’t have made this little nocturnal visit one night later. By then I would have had the money and been on my way to Liverpool.”

  “So that was part of the plan, too,” I said.

  “Of course it was. I was a fairly wealthy man, but my wealth was in real estate and property holdings. There was no way to get ready money for the elopement. At my age one does not run away with a beautiful woman without enough money to insure her faithfulness.”

  “So you thought of this scheme,” I said.

  “Yes. Really very clever, don’t you think? The insurance policy was an unusual one, and Stephens did not want to issue it. He was in a quandry over the matter until he met you in the restaurant. I suppose he felt any man who had such an attractive niece was planning to live a long, long time.”

  “You weren’t planning to live very long, were you?”

  “Just long enough to be decent about the matter. I had planned to wait yet another month or so, but Graystone was getting difficult. He was going to explode the whole thing, so I had to do it rather sooner. Graystone and I were about the same size, had the same color hair. Wearing my clothes and the Falcon ring he would be taken for me without any question, particularly after he had been in the water for a while and knocked about a bit. I made sure of that before I pushed the boat off. No one would have recognized him if the body had been recovered the day after the accident.”

  “Having him run off with the rent money was a brilliant idea,” I said. “I suppose that money paid Lavinia’s fare to Liverpool.”

  “With a little left over for emergencies,” he added.

  “And you forged the letter,” I told him. “I saw a scratch pad in the library. You had practiced his signature on it. When I saw you in the village, you had just given the letter to the sailor and paid him to mail it from America for you. You had been planning to murder Andrew Graystone all along.”

  “My dear, he was marked for death the moment I laid eyes on Lavinia.”

  “And Lucy.…” I said, my voice trembling for the first time.

  “Unfortunate,” he said. “I really hated to do that. Just as I will hate to arrange your accident.”

  “You won’t get away with it,” I whispered.

  “My dear, I have gotten away with everything so far. You don’t believe I am going to let a prying little schoolgirl ruin things now, do you.”

  “Norman Wade knows,” I said.

  “He suspects. He knows nothing. I think he knew about the affair with Lavinia. He saw us together once. He never mentioned anything. He wanted to protect Helena. He may have been suspicious about the accident, but he was too elated about inheriting Falconridge to do anything about it. He is welcome to the place. After tomorrow, after I’ve taken the money from the safe and left, I will never see it again. There is only one problem, and that, my dear, is you.”

  He took my arm and pulled me into the room. I did not struggle. I was fascinated by the man, almost hypnotized. He had discussed all of his intrigue and crime in a casual, off hand manner, the way other men might have discussed the weather. He was amoral. He had no feelings. Killing Andrew Graystone and Lucy had meant nothing to him, just as killing me would mean nothing. He closed the door behind him and released me. I looked around the room he had been living in all these weeks. The bed had been neatly made with fresh sheets, rumpled now, and the furniture was newly polished. A window was open, a fresh breeze coming through it. A tray holding the remnants of his dinner was beside the bed. Martha had been very faithful in her service to him.

  “Poor woman,” he said, as though reading my thoughts. “She thinks I am going to take her with me. She will be so disappointed.”

  “Martha has known all along, hasn’t she.”

  “She knew everything, from the first.”

  Charles Lloyd creased his brow in a deep frown, his eyes focused inward hazily, examining some mental image.

  “Now what shall it be?” he said, holding his head to one side and speaking to himself as though confronting a minor problem. “It has to look like an accident, of course. I could throttle you here and now, but that would mean a great deal of work later, arranging things. Let me see.…” he paused, looking up at me as though I might have an answer for him. “Ah, yes—I begin to see now. You were terribly grieved over the death of your devoted little maid. Your poor brain couldn’t take it. You left your room in the middle of the night—you’ve made that part quite simple for me—and ran outside to the cliff.…”

  He smiled now, the frown going away. His problem had been solved. I watched him, still fascinated by his hypnotic power. I knew it would be useless to scream. My head was still groggy from the drug, and all this had the same nightmare quality that I had noticed before. It could not be happening. It was not real. I wasn’t afraid, not yet. Charles Lloyd drew the belt tighter about his robe and came towards me, smiling with satisfaction at his solution to the problem.

  “We will go outside now,” he said casually. “It will do you no good to scream and struggle. That would only make it more difficult, I can assure you.”

  “You—can’t—do this.…” I whispered.

  “Oh, but I can, my dear.”

  Charles Lloyd took my arm and led me out of the room, opening the door that was directly opposite the one we had come in. We went through two more rooms, both shrouded in white and smelling of dust, and then we came to the staircase that led down to the servants’ quarters. His fingers held my elbow firmly, and I moved as one in a trance might move. We went down the staircase slowly. Little by little the effects of the drug were wearing off. My head cleared, and awareness of danger began to sharpen my perceptions. I grew tense, rigid. Charles Lloyd noticed it. He merely took a firmer hold on my elbow and shoved me forward.

  We reached the landing beside Lucy’s room. A light was burning in a nearby room, and the faint yellow glow melted into the darkness. The area was shadowy. I could see the outlines and edges of furniture. The hall was cold, chilly zephyrs of air stirring all around us. Someone had left a window open. The cold air did more than anything else to drive away the last vestiges of the drug. My head was clear, my brain was alert, and every nerve was alive to danger.

  I had to get away from him, but how? He could overpower me so easily. I stood no chance of eluding him in these dark halls. It would be foolish to try and break away now. Outside there would be moonlight and there would be no dark corners and stairs to hinder my escape. It would be easy to outrun him, if only I could break loose. I must not let him sense my anxiety. I must continue trance-like and obedient until we are free of the confining walls of Falconridge.

  There were footsteps in the hall. Charles Lloyd stepped quickly into a darkened doorway, pulling me after him. His large hand covered my mouth, his free arm wrapped around my waist and holding me tightly against him. The footsteps halted nearby. Charles Lloyd pressed my head against his shoulder, the fingers over my mouth almost smothering me. The footsteps receded, disappeared. Charles Lloyd relaxed, loosening his grip. A servant had probably come to check a window or get a glass of water.

  He led me down the hall, past Lucy’s room and around a corner. The door was in a darkened alcove. The moonlight made the glass panes into blocks of silver. Charles Lloyd unlocked the door and thrust it open. A great gust of wind swept past us, stirring down the hall with vigorous energy. I heard a great crash behind us. The wind had knocked a vase off of one of the hall tables. The noise would surely awaken someone, I thought. Charles Lloyd pushed me outside and pulled the door shut behind him. His arm was still wrapped loosely about my waist. He was breathing a little heavily, not so relaxed as before. The noise had unnerved him, destroying the earlier diabolical calm.

  The lawns were bathed in silver, sloping down to the edge of the cliff. The trees and shrubberies were stark black against the silve
r, casting long blue black shadows that slid over the ground like velvet. Above, the sky was pale gray, filled with ponderous black clouds that spilled moonlight over their sides. It was icy cold, the air crisp and chilled. Crickets were rasping under the flat stones of the terrace and the wind whistled through the leaves of the trees. The sound of the sea was loud, demanding. The waters crashed over the rocks violently, the noise dominating all others.

  “You’ve done very well,” Charles Lloyd said, his voice that of a parent complimenting an obedient child. “Just keep it up, and it will all be over very quickly, very neatly. You know you have to die. Don’t make it difficult.”

  He pushed me forward, forcing me down towards the slope. There were almost a hundred and fifty yards before we would reach the treacherous precipice. I let him move me towards it. As we left the area of the house, he relaxed again, breathing easier. Success was almost at hand now, and he was no longer tense. He made a little noise deep in his throat, a growl of satisfaction. I tensed myself, then suddenly fell limp against him. He thought I had swooned. He was taken by surprise. He loosened his hold, stepping back a little. I broke loose, my feet flying of their own volition.

  Charles Lloyd gave a cry of frustration. I ran blindly, my heart pounding. I could hear him behind me. I ran faster and faster, and it seemed my lungs would burst. I stumbled, falling forward. I got to my feet, panting. The noise of the waves on the rocks was deafening now. I realized with horror that I was but yards from the edge. I had run directly towards the cliff. I turned, poised to run back, and he threw his arms around me.

  I struggled violently. Charles Lloyd gripped my arms and held me fast. I realized that it was hopeless. My back was to the cliff and he was forcing me backwards, nearer and nearer the edge. I kicked out at him, catching him with a powerful blow on the shin. He gasped, releasing me. The suddenness of the release caused me to stumble back. I fell to the ground, only a few feet away from the edge.

  Charles Lloyd drew himself up. The skirt of his robe beat against his dark trousers. The satin lapels gleamed in the moonlight. His hair blew wildly about his head, and I stared up in horrified fascination at his face. It was heavily lined, grim, the lips turned down. His heavy eyelids were lowered, hooding the dark eyes. He looked down at me huddled there at his feet. He swelled his chest, sighing deeply. His fists were balled up tightly, and he seemed to be trying to control his anger. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and stepped back a little so that he could see me better.