by Savage, Tom
“He isn’t here, you know.”
The voice, low and clear, emanated from somewhere in the fog behind her, near the gate of the cemetery. Holly jumped to her feet and whirled around, the glove falling from her hand. She held her breath, peering through the swirling mist. A dark shape was all she could make out, a shape standing quite still not ten feet from her. She took an involuntary step backward, nearly tripping over her father’s stone as the figure slowly began to move toward her.
“They’re gone now,” the figure said, gliding closer, closer. “They’re in Heaven.”
It was a woman, Holly now saw, as tall as she, dressed all in black. She was wearing a long black cape, or cloak, its deep hood framing an unusually pale face. Dark eyes and hair. She might have been about Holly’s age, or older, or younger; it was impossible to tell.
As the woman arrived before her, Holly had the distinct impression that she had seen the face before, though she couldn’t place it. But at least it wasn’t the old monk, or whatever, from her dream. This woman was certainly not a ghost, she reasoned, conjured from this ground by her own anxieties. Besides, she had spoken, and civility demanded a reply. Holly licked her suddenly dry lips, cleared her suddenly dry throat, and spoke.
“Yes, I know they’re in Heaven. I was just—”
“You shouldn’t be here,” the woman said. “You could lose your way in this weather.”
“Yes,” Holly said again, and now she began to move, edging slowly around the woman, who stood between her and the gate. There was something wrong with her; she made Holly nervous. “I was just going back to the house.…”
Now the woman shook her head, reaching out a pale white hand to clutch the sleeve of Holly’s coat. “You shouldn’t be there, either!”
“I live there,” Holly said, pulling her coat rather roughly from the woman’s grasp and backing toward the gate. “It’s my house now. I’m Holly Randall.”
The woman followed her, grabbing at her sleeve again.
“I know who you are!” she hissed. “You shouldn’t be there! A pretty girl like you—”
“Don’t!” Holly cried, yanking her arm away. The sharp iron bars of the fence were behind her now, pressing into her back. “Please don’t touch me! Just—”
“You shouldn’t be there!” The woman’s eyes were wild, pleading, her breath coming in a series of panting gasps. She continued to advance, reaching out once more.
Holly stared at the pale white fingers of the woman’s right hand as they came toward her. Then her gaze traveled to the left hand, and she saw that the woman was clutching something in it, something limp and grubby that dangled down against her cloak. A surge of pure revulsion coursed through her as she realized what it was: an old, battered, naked baby doll, its glass eyes staring vacantly, its remaining sparse patches of downy hair matted with dead leaves, its plastic head and limbs encrusted with dirt. Graveyard dirt.
Holly ran. A small cry escaped her as she caught her coat on the pointed tip of a rail, and she heard a ripping sound when she tore herself loose and staggered through the open gate just as the woman’s fingers were about to snatch her. She ran blindly through the wall of fog in what she hoped was the right direction.
“You shouldn’t be there!” she heard once more from the darkness behind her.
A tree loomed up before her, and she tripped over an exposed root and went sprawling on the damp ground. She was up again in a second, up and running through the trees and across the lawn. She had the sensation that she was running underwater, which wasn’t far from the truth. The fog, wet and freezing, clung to her face and hair and clothes, drenching her. The patio and the covered swimming pool floated by her in a hazy blur as she fixed her gaze on the light ahead, the beacon that suddenly, mercifully arrived before her, shining through the mist—the brightly lit windows of the kitchen.
She flew across the final stretch of walkway and stumbled up the three stone steps to the kitchen door. She fell heavily against it, panting, and grasped the knob in her shaking hand. Only then did she summon the courage to turn around to look behind her.
There was nobody in sight. She couldn’t see very far from here, only as far as the edge of the patio, but the black-cloaked woman was not there. She had vanished in the fog, along with her grisly burden.
Holly pushed open the door and barged into the kitchen. A sudden blast of warmth assaulted her wet, freezing body as she stopped, blinking around through the glare. Three women were here, Mrs. Ramirez and Mrs. Jessel and one of the maids, whose name she could not remember, and they had all turned to stare at her.
“Ms. Randall!” she heard one of them say. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I—I’m fine,” she murmured, sinking into a chair at the big table in the center of the room. “I just got lost in the fog, and I fell down, and.…”
“Oh, my dear, you must be careful in this weather,” someone said. “Grace, pour Ms. Randall a cup of tea.”
It was Mrs. Jessel who had spoken. She sat down beside Holly and reached for her coat.
“You’re fairly soaking wet,” she said. “Take off that coat and stay here, near the fire.”
Holly shrugged the coat from her shoulders, gazing around. The big brick fireplace was roaring, and the stove and oven were in use. Of course, she thought as she relaxed in the warm room, they’re making dinner. She smiled up at the maid—Grace; her name was Grace—as a mug of tea was placed on the table before her. “Thank you.”
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Jessel asked her again. “You’ve torn your coat.”
Holly followed Mrs. Jessel’s gaze down to the right sleeve of her wool coat. There was a small rip there, where she’d caught it on the iron bar of the cemetery fence. “I’m fine.” She noticed her bare right hand. “I think I dropped my glove in the—” She stopped herself abruptly. For some reason, she didn’t want to tell these women where she’d been, what she had been doing. “Near the chapel.”
“Well, we can look for it tomorrow,” Mrs. Jessel said, “and Martha can sew this sleeve for you. Grace, close that door. The cold is coming in.”
The maid went over to the open kitchen door as Mrs. Jessel picked up the coat. Holly reached for the mug, steadying herself, forcing the obscene image of the pendulous, filthy doll from her mind.
“Oh!” Grace cried from the doorway.
Holly and the other women turned to look as Grace stepped out through the door, leaned down, and picked something up from the top step. She came back inside and shut the door.
“Here you are, miss,” Grace said. “You dropped it right here, just outside the door.”
Holly stared. The girl was holding up the glove she’d dropped on her father’s grave in the cemetery.
The woman in black, she thought. She picked up my glove and brought it here. She was right outside this door, clutching that ghastly thing to her, probably seconds ago.…
Holly turned to Mrs. Jessel. “There was the most extraordinary—”
For the second time in as many minutes, Holly stopped herself. She was looking at the housekeeper. Now, in the light, she noticed something about Mrs. Jessel that hadn’t registered before. The pale skin, the dark eyes and hair, the severe black dress. Her face …
The face that had emerged from the fog in the graveyard. The face at the upstairs window of the gatehouse, Mrs. Jessel’s house, on the day Holly had arrived here from New York. A pale face with dark eyes, framed by dark hair, and a pale hand moving aside the lace curtain of the window. A younger, prettier version of the face before her now.
Mrs. Jessel was watching her. “The most extraordinary—what?”
Holly blinked at the woman, shrugged, and forced herself to smile.
“Oh, nothing,” she whispered.
Still smiling at Mildred Jessel, she picked up the mug in her trembling hands and drank.
CHAPTER SIX
A Game of Chess
He looked nervously around the room to be sure that everything was ready.
He was about to receive his first guest in years, and he wanted to make a good impression. It was vital that she like him, trust him. Especially if his growing suspicion was correct.
Of course, there was every chance that the girl was an idiot, or took after her mother, in which case he would keep his own counsel. He would fill her with tea and Mrs. Ramirez’s excellent pastries, chuck her under the chin, and send her on her way. No harm done. But he hoped she wasn’t an idiot. And he fervently hoped she didn’t take after Constance Hall Randall.…
He shook his head, smiling at his trepidation. Ichabod Crane: that’s what Emily had always called him.
Emily …
Oh, well, he told himself. Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.
Raymond Wheatley had helped him with the table. The two men had moved it out into the center of the room, and Raymond had placed a white linen tablecloth over it and set it with good silver. My sister’s silver, he thought as he went into the bathroom and checked his appearance for the third time in ten minutes.
He was wearing his white dinner jacket, with the black bow tie and piped trousers and patent leather shoes. He hadn’t worn these clothes since Emily’s wedding to James Randall nearly sixty years ago. He’d never worn them in his public appearances in the old days, comfortable sweaters being more suitable for long sessions at chess tables with all those lights and cameras aimed at him. He shuddered now, remembering that he had once actually allowed people to photograph him, and to film his matches.
Yes, his tie was straight, not that it really mattered. The little medicine cabinet mirror was the only one in his rooms. He didn’t care to look at himself, any more than others cared to look at him. But maybe, with any luck, Holly Randall wouldn’t mind.
Mr. Wheatley was turning out to be a treasure. He had taken Holly’s note to her great-uncle yesterday, then come back with the confirmation. When Holly asked, he was only too happy to give her some background information on her mysterious host. Now she knew a few things. As it happened, her preparation was fortunate.
She had dressed with care, deciding after much thought on the blue velvet cocktail dress. It covered more of her than the others she’d bought that would be appropriate for afternoon tea, and she was aware that a gentleman in his late eighties who sent formal notes of invitation would disapprove of anything that could be construed as provocative. She kept her makeup simple and wore no jewelry, and her hair hung down her back in a single braid. She briefly considered but ultimately discarded a pair of white gloves. Almost as an afterthought, she sprayed herself lightly with the distinctly old-fashioned, lavender-scented toilet water she’d found on her bureau with the silver-plated brushes. She felt like Pollyanna, but she was certain the overall effect would be appreciated.
She knew, in the way that one knows these things, that this meeting could be important. She was in a new house with a new family and a new way of life, but she distrusted her aunt and uncle. This ancient relative, this man in the guest room, could not possibly want or need anything from her. Mr. Wheatley had informed her that Ichabod Morris had once been world-famous, and that he was wealthy in his own right. That alone made him valuable to her: he, of all those present, would tell her the truth.
She was planning to ask him about her parents.
He would certainly have been around at the time of the murder, and he could probably give her a personal view of the events of twenty-four years ago. Holly had already accepted his invitation when she visited the cemetery yesterday, but ever since she’d seen what was etched into her father’s headstone she’d been consumed with questions, questions she had never thought to ask. Questions she would never ask Uncle John.
At the appointed time, she left her room and went down the hall, around the gallery above the Great Hall, and into the guest wing, to the first door on her left. At precisely four o’clock, she raised her hand and knocked.
A thin, tremulous voice on the other side of the door said, “Come in.”
Holly opened the door and went inside. She stood in the doorway, her hand on the knob, gazing around her. The first thing she saw was the little table laid for tea, all crisp white linen and heavy, sparkling silver. There were two red velvet overstuffed chairs pulled up to the table, facing each other. On another table in a corner was a big, beautiful marble chessboard, the rows of ivory and ebony pieces gleaming, ready for a game. She took in the many crowded bookshelves, the heavy damask curtains at the large windows, and the bulky, state-of-the-art computer terminal on the desk near the corner, its screen saver flashing endlessly repeated patterns of stars and asteroids and the U.S.S. Enterprise. She smiled at this anachronism in the otherwise old-fashioned room, shut the door softly behind her, and turned her attention to the tall, white-haired gentleman in the white dinner jacket who stood looking out at the front drive from a window, his back to her.
After a moment he said, “Miss Randall.” A statement. He did not turn around.
“Holly,” she said. “I’m Holly. What shall I call you, sir?”
She heard his low chuckle. “You may call me Ichabod. Or you may call me what your delightful father and your rather loathsome uncle always called me.”
Holly laughed. It was an easy, unaffected sound. He’d caught her off guard: she hadn’t expected anything like that statement from him. She respected him immediately.
“He is rather loathsome,” she said, “and it’s a loathsome nickname. I’m pleased to meet you, Ichabod.”
“Check,” the old man said.
“I beg your pardon?”
He reached out with an arm, gesturing toward the chessboard. “A term we use in my profession. You are an intelligent young woman, and you have just completed an excellent move. Forgive me for keeping my back to you all this while, Holly. I’m going to turn around now, but before I do, I feel I must—”
“It’s quite all right,” she said softly, cutting him off. “Mr. Wheatley has told me. Not that it matters. I have one myself.”
There was silence in the room. Then the old man nodded once, took a deep breath, and slowly turned away from the window to face her.
She thought she would be prepared, but she was not. She blinked to keep from staring at him. The deep red stain was there, just as Mr. Wheatley had described it, completely covering the right side of his face and neck. Otherwise, it was a handsome face, or would have been. He was old, most old, older than she’d expected. But neither his age nor his disfiguring birthmark was the reason for her surprise. With a massive, but invisible, effort, she managed to smile and extend her hand. After a moment, he smiled and came over to take her hand in his.
She stood there, smiling, shaking the hand of the specter from her dream, the monk at the foot of her bed.
“Checkmate,” he murmured, and then he led her over to the table. They sat facing each other in the plush chairs. He smiled at her again and reached for the telephone on the little table beside him. “Mrs. Ramirez, please tell Mr. Wheatley we’re ready for tea. Thank you.”
She was prettier up close than she was from a distance, but this did not surprise him. He made a slow, appreciative study of the face and hair, the dress, and the hands now folded in her lap. Yes, he thought. Quite beautiful. She looks like Emily, and a little like Alicia Wainwright. Not like her mother, though; more like her father.
“I compliment you on your perfect manners, Holly,” he said at last. “You recognized me immediately, of course, but you didn’t let on. Yes, it was I, the menacing figure in your bedroom, for which I apologize. I gave in to an overwhelming urge.”
The young woman grinned and raised an eyebrow. “And what overwhelming urge was that?”
They laughed.
“If I were sixty years younger, or even forty, I would be insulted,” he said. “As if I would have any other reason for stealing into a woman’s bedroom! Alas, that is no longer the case.” Then his smile faded, and he leaned forward, gazing into her eyes. “I just had to be sure. That it really was you, and that you
really were here.”
She stared at him, and now she, too, leaned forward. She opened her mouth to speak.
The door opened, and Raymond Wheatley came in with the tea tray.
“Thank you, Raymond,” her great-uncle said.
“Of course, Ichabod,” Mr. Wheatley replied. He set down the tray and departed.
She watched her great-uncle as he poured, and as he offered her the plate of pastries. She took one, something warm and flaky with chocolate drizzled over it, and grinned at him again.
“Raymond,” she said. “I’ve never heard anyone use his first name before. And I’ve certainly never heard him call anyone else here by their first name.”
He nodded. “We are of a certain age, Raymond and I. He was never my servant, nor am I his. We are on a first-name basis.”
They sipped their tea. Then she noticed the trophies covering nearly every surface on one side of the room, and the framed ribbons and citations on the wall above them. “I didn’t place your name when I first heard it yesterday, but I certainly know who you are.”
He nodded absently. “Oh, yes, I suppose. As you probably know Babe Ruth and Jack Dempsey and Sonja Henie. A legend from the remote past.”
“You were America’s greatest chess player,” Holly said, remembering what Mr. Wheatley had told her.
He laughed again. “It’s a good thing Fischer didn’t hear you say that. He’d have had a fit!” Then he glanced sharply at her. “Do you play, by any chance?”
Her eyes widened, and she blushed. “Not like you.”
“I was thinking, perhaps we could have a game when we finish our tea.…”
“Oh, sure!” she said, giggling. “But a quick one, please. I promised to play tennis with Martina later this afternoon.”
He reached out and took her hand in his. “Holly, indulge an old man. I have so few visitors, and Raymond does not play. For longer than I care to admit, my only opponent has been that.” He waved, indicating the computer on the desk.
Holly smiled. “You play chess with a computer?”
