The Lady of Lyon House

by Jennifer Wilde

  I was tense, and my hands were clutching a cushion. I could hear the clock ticking over the mantle and the soft rustle of the curtains as the wind disturbed them. The rest of the house was in silence, but it was a heavy silence, laden with secrets. I was too frightened to move for a while.

  My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. There was enough moonlight to see that the room was just as it had been before. Nothing had been disturbed. The box of water colors and the empty cup still set on the hearth beside the painting I had done earlier. The corners of the paper had curled up. The dinner tray was still on the coffee table, Walpole’s novel still resting on the arm of the sofa. Despite this, I knew someone had walked through the room, coming through the opened windows.

  I went over to the windows to close them. I stared down at the wet tiles of the terrace. Were those dark stains footsteps? The whole surface was streaked with mud, and I could not be certain. I closed the windows, fastened them, and drew the curtains, closing off the milky light. I paused, listening. I thought I heard a shuffling noise somewhere in the front part of the house.

  There was a lamp and matches on the little table in the hall just outside the library. I stepped quickly across the room and through the door. It took me only a moment to locate the lamp and start it glowing. I wondered what I should do. I knew that Clark, the gardener, would be in his room in the servants’ quarters, but I was apprehensive about waking up the servants. There would be a general alarm, and I would feel extremely foolish if it turned out to be my imagination after all. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps one of the maids had gone out to meet her boy friend, like Molly, and had chosen to come in unobserved.

  I walked down the hall, holding the lantern high. It cast flickering shadows that moved on the wall like agile black dancers. I went into the parlor. It was empty, and there were no signs that anyone had been there. The dining room was empty, too, the wavering light gleaming on the varnished mahogany wainscotting. As I stood there examining the room I heard a distinct noise in another part of the house. It sounded as if someone had stumbled against a piece of furniture.

  I stepped quickly into the hall and called out. There was no answer. Instead there was a listening silence. I moved into the great front hall. I could see the crystals of the chandelier dripping down, catching the light and throwing it back. I saw the front door, the potted plants that stood on either side of it. Behind me the staircase climbed up into a nest of shadows. I turned. Something brushed against me. The lamp went out.

  I caught my breath. It had happened so quickly that I did not really know exactly what had happened: I stood there, holding the dead lamp in a trembling hand. Had a sudden gust of wind blown against me and at the same time blown out the lamp? No, no, I told myself, whatever had brushed against me had been far more tangible than a gust of wind. Now I was surrounded by impenetrable darkness, and I knew I was not alone.

  I waited, unable to move. I could feel someone else in the hall. I could hear the soft sound of breathing. Someone was moving, slowly, very, very slowly, but I could sense the movement. I was cold all over and my hand was trembling so violently it seemed the lamp would shatter to the floor. I waited, and nothing happened.

  Gradually forms began to distinguish themselves in the blackness, darker. I saw the outlines of furniture. I saw the tiny threads of moonlight seeping in through the closed draperies. There was a sliding noise, very faint, and it was going away from me. It was going up the stairs. Into that nest of shadows moved another shadow. It was just a shade darker than the rest, but it moved, and I knew it was human. I acted quickly.

  I ran silently through the darkness to the table. I groped for the box of matches I knew were there and knocked over a vase. It crashed to the floor with an ear-splitting explosion of sound, but my trembling fingers found the flat box. It was a moment before I was steady enough to strike one of the matches. I had to strike three before I could get the wick to burn properly.

  I hurried back to the front hall. The lamp wick waved wildly, and the shadows did a demon dance on the walls. I stood at the bottom of the staircase and called. There was no reply, but the shadows at the top of the stairs seemed to stir. I saw something move. Then I heard a strange noise. I did not know if it was laughter or hysterical sobbing.

  Agatha Crandall stepped out of the shadows. She wore a shabby rose colored dressing robe, tattered lace at throat and wrists. Her hair was wildly disarrayed and her cheeks were flushed. She stared down at where I stood, but she did not seem to see me. In one hand she held a bottle of gin, and with the other she seemed to be pushing at the shadows that surrounded her.

  Her body swayed back and forth, into the shadows and out. I could see the rose colored blur of her robe and the white shape of her face. I watched with horror as she tottered on a pair of high heeled slippers. I saw her step down the first step and then jerk back. She threw her arms out wildly, still holding onto the bottle of gin. There seemed to be a great thrashing of shadows, and then she fell. She tumbled down, her body bumping over the steps.

  I stood with my back flattened against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, one hand holding the lamp high. I tried to scream, but no sound came. I stared at the body at my feet.

  Agatha Crandall looked up at me. Her eyes were wells of sadness. I saw her lift her hand limply, and at the same time I saw the gin spilling out of the bottle and soaking into the carpet. It made a gurgling sound. Her mouth moved, and I heard a faint whisper. I leaned over her and held my face close to her lips.

  “Man,” she said. “Ashley. Go see Beau, Julia. Go see Beau. He is—hurry, before—before. Cheated. Tricked. You, too. Never meant to—” Her eyes grew wide, and her body twitched. “Man—” she cried in a hoarse voice. Her body twitched again, convulsively.

  Then she was silent. I knew she would never speak again.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CORINNE’S FACE was ashen as she sat in the parlor. Her hands were covered with black gloves, and they moved in her lap like fluttering birds. She wore a dress of black broadcloth, and the veil she had covered her face with earlier this morning was now draped back over the auburn hair. She had conducted herself beautifully, regally this morning when the men came to ask questions. She had been every inch the grand lady, not once exposing the fierce temper or malicious tongue. She was not stricken with grief over Agatha Crandall’s death. She was, in truth, rather relieved, but the doctor and the other men who had come had no idea of this. They asked their questions in gentle voices, shaking their heads solemnly, and Corinne had even raised her handkerchief to her eyes. Once her voice cracked, and they all waited politely for her to regain composure.

  The verdict on Agatha Crandall’s death was a simple one. She had a drop too much to drink, had lost her balance and fallen down the stairs. One of the high heels had broken off her slipper, and this was taken as the major cause of the accident. The bottle of gin she had clutched even in death was added evidence, if evidence was needed. The body was removed to the mortician’s, and the men had gently taken their leave, expressing deepest sympathy.

  Corinne had carried it off wonderfully. She had even apologized to Dr. Redmund and agreed to let him examine her in the forthcoming week. The doctor generously agreed to handle all the funeral arrangements for her. When all the men had gone, Corinne went into the parlor, threw back the veil and poured a stiff glass of brandy.

  “I wish Edward were here,” she said now, moving her hands nervously in her lap.

  “He will be back tonight, won’t he?”

  “He said he would. You never know with him, though. It may be another week.”

  “I’m sure he’ll return on schedule,” I said quietly. “Shouldn’t you go up and rest, Corinne? This has been quite an ordeal for you.”

  “It was,” she said simply.

  I had seen Agatha Crandall lose her balance and fall down the staircase, and that is what I had told them. Immediately after the accident the house was full of lights, swar
ming with servants, and there had been no sign of any mysterious intruder. What had happened before might never have happened at all, I told myself. The wind had blown the French windows back, causing them to slam against the wall and wake me up. I had been alarmed to wake up so suddenly, and all that followed was the product of an over-active imagination.

  This is what I told myself, but I was not sure I believed it.

  Agatha’s cryptic words before her death might have been the gibberish of a drunken old woman. I could not figure them out. I felt they contained some imperative message for me, and I intended to discover it for myself. I knew that it concerned Philip Ashley in some way. She had mentioned his name.

  I believed she had given me the name of her murderer. I tried not to think that. If Philip Ashley had crept into the house and gone up the stairs, if he had been the dark form I had imagined sliding along the wall, then where had he vanished to after the “accident”? Lights burned in every room moments later, and all the windows and doors had been securely locked. I had examined them myself.

  I was confused and bewildered. I tried to think clearly with a logical mind. It was impossible. There was no evidence whatsoever of any crime, and yet I kept remembering that nest of shadows at the top of the staircase. I remembered Agatha swirling and weaving, as though fighting someone behind her. Had I seen a dark arm dart out and shove her, right before she fell? I could not be certain.

  “You saw it all?” Corinne said.

  “Yes.”

  “How—treacherous. Tell me again, Julia.”

  “She was at the top of the stairs. It was very dark. She was surrounded by shadows, and I just had a single lamp. She wove in and out of the shadows. Then she fell.”

  “Dreadful,” Corinne said. “Dreadful. I always knew Agatha would have an accident of that kind. She couldn’t hold her liquor. The wonder is that it hadn’t happened sooner.”

  I stared at Corinne. Her voice was cold. I was amazed that she could be so callous. She seemed to sense my thoughts. A curious smile played at the corners of her lips.

  “Don’t expect me to be a hypocrite, Julia,” she snapped. “I’m much too old for that. I’m sorry she’s dead, of course. But I feel no grief for her. She was a nuisance, a gin-ridden old nuisance. I have no idea why I put up with her for as long as I did.”

  “I understand,” I replied.

  “I hope you do,” she said briskly. “You’re very young. The young are inclined to be ruled by their sentiment. Later on you’ll learn that sentiment should be preserved for something worthy of it. Agatha certainly wasn’t.”

  She stood up, brushing the stiff black skirts of her dress. She had a look of sadness in her eyes that belied her words. I knew she was far more upset than she pretended to be. She reached up to brush an auburn curl from her temple and then told me that she was going back up to her room. She said she would not be down for dinner but asked to be informed of Edward’s arrival, regardless of the hour. She left the room, moving slowly and stiffly.

  I was left alone with my thoughts, and they were not pleasant ones. I decided to go up to my room, and met Molly in the hall.

  “Did you have a nice time last night?” I asked, knowing how innocuous the question must sound under the circumstances.

  “Oh, yes,” Molly replied. “Teddie took me to the Inn. Bertie came in and saw us together. He was furious! There was almost a fight, but Teddie edged away—left me with Bertie. It was ever so grand! You look a little pale, Miss Julia—”

  “I’m all right,” I said.

  “You’re still upset, and no wonder! That poor old lady—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Molly,” I told her.

  “I saw her last night, Bertie ’n I did,” she continued as though I had not spoken. “I remarked to Bertie how odd it was, the old lady out like that—”

  I had not really been listening to anything Molly was saying, but now I paid close attention to her words. Molly knew that she had an important bit of information, and she played it for all it was worth, going into detail and adding her own embellishments.

  “Bertie ’n I were comin’ back from the Inn. It was late, and the moon was splendid—everything was all lit up. The ground was still wet and drops dripped from the leaves, though it had stopped rainin’ hours before. We were comin’ back, like I said, and I saw this woman crossin’ the road, leavin’ Dower House—”

  “It was Agatha?” I prompted.

  “She was wearin’ a long, dark cloak. At first I thought it was the mysterious lady—Mr. Edward’s friend—’cause we’d just been talkin’ about her, remember? Then I saw it was Mrs. Crandall. Her face was all worried-like, and she kept lookin’ around as though she expected to see someone jump out of the woods. She didn’t see us, though. We were dawdlin’ along—”

  “She was leaving Dower House?”

  “Where that mad Mr. Ashley is stayin’. I wondered why she had gone to see him. I said to Bertie how odd it was, her goin’ to Dower House. Can’t think of why. But she was wastin’ her time last night. That’s for sure. He wasn’t home.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “He’s been gone for two days,” Molly replied. “Didn’t you know? He left with a suitcase and took the train day before yesterday. He left that rusty red dog of his with one of the farmers, asked him to keep it for a couple of days while he was gone.”

  “Why did he leave?” I inquired.

  “To buy some special kind of paintin’ supplies, he said.”

  I did not find it at all unusual that Molly knew all this. There was very little that happened in and around the village that was not general knowledge within an hour or so after it occurred. A man as striking and unusual as Philip Ashley could hardly buy a cigar without the whole village commenting on it.

  “He hasn’t come back yet?” I asked.

  “No. Dower House was all dark and closed up last night. Mrs. Crandall looked very upset, like I said.

  “What time was this, Molly?”

  “Oh, late. After midnight, I would say.”

  “Have you—mentioned this to anyone?”

  “You’re the first one I’ve told. There’s been so much excitement I haven’t had time to talk to anyone.”

  “I wish you would keep it to yourself, Molly,” I said.

  “Is it important?”

  “Not really,” I replied glibly. “I would just prefer you didn’t say anything about it for a while. Not to anyone.” I hesitated for a moment and then asked if she was certain Mr. Ashley hadn’t come back yet.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Bertie delivered some groceries this afternoon, and he said the house was still closed up.”

  “Thank you, Molly,” I said, dismissal in my voice.

  “Oh, by the way,” she said as I started to walk on down the hall, “do you remember those two men I told you about—the ones who said they were surveyors? The ones I was so suspicious about—”

  “Of course. What about them.”

  “Well, they’re still around. Everyone thought they’d gone off, but they are still here. Bertie saw ’em prowling around a field near here, one night as he was leavin’ me after we’d met in the gardens. He followed ’em. They’re stayin’ in an old deserted cottage down the river a way—”

  “Perhaps they have legitimate reasons,” I replied.

  “Them askin’ all those questions about Mr. Edward and the old lady, actin’ so suspicious. Of course, they could really be surveyors, but I know criminal types when I see ’em. They’re up to no good, no good at all—”

  Molly was obviously eager to discuss the whole matter at length. I discouraged her with a sharp look. I was curious about the two men, and I was even more suspicious than Molly, but I had things to do now.

  Half an hour later I left the house. It was cool, and I was wearing a dark blue cloak over my light blue dress. I hurried across the gardens, through a patch of trees and was on the road that led to Dower House. It was late afternoon now, an
d the sky was a faint green shade, growing darker. The trees cast black shadows across the road. There was a brisk wind that caused my cloak to flutter away from my shoulders. My heart was pounding a little at the enormity of what I was about to do, but nothing could have stopped me at that point.

  Something was going on, something that had started in London. Philip Ashley had been in it from the first. He had followed me in the fog, and when I had come to Lyon House, he had followed me again. He turned up every time something happened, or his name did. Agatha Crandall had paid him a visit, had come home drunk and muttering enigmatic statements that had infuriated Corinne.

  Last night she had gone to see him again, and last night she had died. I was certain that the two things were connected. Agatha’s death was the result of her visit to Dower House. Molly said he had not been at home, but perhaps he had returned early, without anyone knowing about it. Perhaps he had followed Agatha to Lyon House, slipping in through the opened French windows and sliding against the wall as he went up the staircase. Agatha had been pushed down the stairs. What I had seen had not been merely the awkward stumbling of a drunken old woman. It had been the struggle of a woman fighting for her life against an assailant invisible to me in the shadows. I was convinced of that now.

  I believed Philip Ashley was that assailant.

  Dower House looked serene in the fading light. The last rays of the sun washed the cream colored brick with soft shadow. The brown shutters were closed and fastened. The wind rustled the strands of dark green ivy that clung to the brick. Behind it the apple orchard made a muted background of rose and gold, fading as the shadows spread. It was a lovely place, so calm and innocent to the eye, but I wondered what ugly secrets it would hold.

  I had to climb over the front fence, remembering as I did the last time I had climbed it. I had ripped my skirt then, and Philip Ashley had laughed so rudely. In my mind I could still hear that laughter, and it was a demonic sound, endowed with evil. The house looked empty. I went to the front door and knocked loudly, nevertheless, and I could hear the sound echoing in the empty rooms beyond the door. I have no idea what I would have done had Philip Ashley opened the door. I don’t know how I would have explained my rash conduct. But no one was in the house. I could sense its emptiness as I knocked again. I turned the door knob. The door was locked securely. I intended to get inside somehow.