“It can wait,” she said coldly.
“I rather fancy it can. My, what a lovely outfit you’re wearing this morning.”
“I’m going riding,” she said stiffly. “I—I intend to ride over the moors. I shan’t be here for lunch. I don’t imagine I’ll be back until two or three o’clock—” She turned to me, all icy dignity now. “You and I can continue our little discussion then, Jenny luv. I think you’ll be extremely interested in what I have to say.”
Moving past us, Vanessa walked briskly down the hall, the long gray velvet skirt trailing behind her. Edward stood beside me, watching her with that same ironic expression, the smile still curling on his lips, and when the door slammed behind her he shook his head in mock dismay.
“Such an unpredictable creature,” he remarked. “Vanessa has her problems, no question about it.”
“She seemed terribly upset about something.”
“Oh? What did she say?”
“It wasn’t what she said, it was the way she said it. She mentioned seeing us returning from the ruins. She—she seemed almost to be accusing me of something.”
“You probably imagined it,” he said dryly.
“No—no, I didn’t. Something is bothering her. I suppose I’ll find out what it is this afternoon.”
“No doubt you will.” Edward shrugged his shoulders, bored with the subject now, indifferent to Vanessa’s woes. “I’ve finished in the study for the morning—I think I’ll take a long walk. Lyman keeps complaining about the crows. I may fetch my pistol and try to pick off a few. Care to accompany me?”
“I think not, Edward.”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
Edward hadn’t returned from his walk at lunch time, and I ate alone. I was in a distracted mood, strangely disturbed by the encounter with Vanessa and unable to put it out of my mind. What had she been about to tell me? No matter how I tried, I couldn’t forget that look of venomous hostility in her eyes. Vanessa had been cool and bitchy to me from the first, but it was only since Gerry’s departure that her hatred had become so open, so obvious. She had every reason to resent me, of course, but somehow or other I felt that there was another explanation, one that should have been quite clear. I had the feeling I had missed something, something that would have answered a number of questions that kept recurring in my mind. It was similar to the feeling I had about that bizarre red room. I felt I should know the answer to that puzzle, too.
Despite my intentions to forget about it, I found myself thinking about this morning’s encounter with Lyman in the drawing room. I remembered his cryptic rdmarks: I’m on your side, I want you to know that … the time isn’t ripe yet … You’re a bloody, naïve little fool, but under the circumstances that’s just as well. I found them even more puzzling than I had when he first uttered them. Lyman’s remarks, Vanessa’s attitude … there was a connection. I felt sure of that. I remembered his curious manner that night when I discovered him in the east wing, remembered Edward’s anger when he found me in the red room. That was all a part of it as well. It was like a great jigsaw puzzle, various pieces floating around disconnected. If only I could fit them all together. If only … I left the dining room, trying to put it all out of my mind. Everything would be explained in due course. Everything would be resolved. I mustn’t brood about it. That would accomplish nothing.
The afternoon seemed long, endlessly long. The old house was strangely silent, the servants moving about their duties quietly, unobtrusively, like phantoms. I wandered from room to room, restless, uneasy without knowing precisely why. My earlier confidence had evaporated, and try though I might I couldn’t shake the feeling of apprehension. I went to the library. I tried to read. I couldn’t. I went to my room, thinking I might rest, but the lovely room seemed like a prison, confining me, the walls pressing in on me with steady malevolence. Lyman was gone, and Vanessa, and Edward still hadn’t come in from his walk. Lord Mallyn was in his room, taking his afternoon nap, and Lettice would be napping, too. The house seemed empty, desolate, so still, so silent, yet the very air seemed to be charged with tension, like the still, silent tension before a storm. I passed down the long gallery, moved slowly down the wide stone steps, and for some reason I kept remembering Cook and her tarot cards. Death and disaster. That was nonsense, of course. I … I was merely restless. The encounter with Vanessa had disturbed me and, unwisely, I had dwelled on it, had dwelled on those other disturbing incidents. I must pull myself together.
I paused at the foot of the stairs, frowning, and when the scream came I wasn’t really surprised. It was loud and shrill, muted by distance, coming from outside. I stood there for perhaps half a moment, perfectly still, my heart pounding, and then I began to run.
A deafening explosion sounded as I hurried outside. It came from the avenue of limes. I ran, stumbling past the cobbled yard, past the stables, and then I was on the rough, uneven ground and the lime trees were on either side and I saw the excited figures at the end of the avenue. I saw the grooms, the head coachman, Anderson the gardener. I saw the still thrashing body of the horse, and the blood, bright scarlet blood, and I saw the other body, too. The long gray velvet skirt was twisted under her, and her head was at such a peculiar angle, all limp, hanging to one side, ebony waves spilling over the grass. I stopped, paralyzed, unable to move any closer.
My heart was still pounding. My breath came in short, painful gasps. Edward looked up. He saw me. He broke away from the group at the end of the avenue and hurried toward me, clutching a still smoking pistol in one hand. His face was ashen, his high cheekbones chalky white. I shook my head, denying it, knowing it hadn’t happened, knowing it couldn’t have happened. Edward dropped the pistol. He seized me. I was trembling violently, still shaking my head. Edward said something, but I didn’t hear. I cried out, and he tightened his arms brutally, turning me around, turning me away so I couldn’t see that grotesque tableau that was all too real.
Chapter Fifteen
IT WAS over now. The doctor had come and examined the body and signed the death certificate. They had come with their wagon for the body, taken it to the funeral parlor in the village, and Edward had gone along to talk to the constable and explain the accident and take care of the necessary formalities. It was almost seven, and I felt weary, so weary. I had gone up to the nursery. I had explained the accident to Lettice. The child had been stunned, too stunned to say anything, and I had persauded her to take the sedative the doctor had left. Lord Mallyn had been thoroughly shaken when I told him what happened. He had his own sedative, a bottle of port. Silently, defiantly, he took it out of the chest of drawers by his bedside, and I left him with it.
I was in the drawing room, waiting for Edward to return. After that first outburst of hysteria immediately after the accident, I had been surprisingly calm, a well of calmness, doing everything it was necessary to do, helping wherever I could, but it was a peculiar calm, a numbness that left me curiously detached. Ever since I had seen the body, the blood, the cluster of excited men, it was as though I were two people: the Jenny who spoke and moved with admirable self-control, and the Jenny who stood outside, watching from a distant vantage point, still unable to believe it had really happened. I knew I had to keep tight rein on myself. I knew that if I ever once let go I would fall to pieces, and I couldn’t. Somdone had to tell Lyman. When he returned late tonight someone would have to tell him his wife was dead. Lord Mallyn would be in no condition, Edward would be too terse, and it wasn’t something one of the servants could do.
I stood at the window, watching the shadows spread, watching the final rays of sunlight gilding the flowers with splendor, their colors vivid and sharply defined. Was it only this morning that I had seen them through a haze of shimmering mist? That might have been a century ago. I let the drape fall back in place and turned away. I could see my reflection in the mirror across the room. My auburn hair spilled down in untidy waves, framing a pale, oval face, green eyes dark and troubled, mouth tremulous. I was still w
earing the tan and brown striped muslin, the square neckline cut low, the waist tight, the skirt very full, billowing over my petticoats. I should change into something more appropriate, I thought, but I hadn’t the energy. I sat down and gazed at the empty fireplace. Beams of wavering sunlight slanted through the windows, gleaming on dark, polished woodwork and making pools on the faded gray and maroon Aubusson carpet. In my mind I could see it all happening again, exactly as Edward had described it.
He had spent more than three hours out in the fields, shooting at crows. He had killed several and, strolling back toward the house down the avenue of limes, had been pleased with himself, satisfied that he hadn’t lost any of his prowess with a pistol. He had heard the hooves thundering loudly across the fields behind him, had turned in time to see Vanessa come charging down the avenue, riding like a mad woman, slashing the horse with her riding crop, urging it on. The horse stumbled and fell, breaking its leg with a loud splintering of bones, hurling Vanessa into the air. She let out one shrill scream, then died instantly, landing on her head, her neck breaking. Edward hurried over to her, saw that she was dead, and the horse was kicking and thrashing and neighing in agony. He raised his pistol and put the beast out of its agony just as the servants came hurrying down the avenue. I had arrived a few seconds later.
I looked up as Jeffers solemnly entered the room. He asked me if anyone would require dinner, and I shook my head. Jeffers said Cook would have a cold meal on hand should anyone feel hungry. He asked me if I needed anything. I shook my head again. Jeffers slipped silently out of the room. Since the accident, the servants had been even quieter than before, moving on tiptoes, it seemed, speaking in hushed whispers, and the house was like a great silent tomb. I could almost feel its heavy weight pressing down on me, tons and tons of stone hovering overhead, ponderous. Mallyncourt had never seemed so vast nor so lifeless.
What was keeping Edward so long? I stood up, unable to sit still any longer. There had been things to do, and I had done them, and I had been able to hold back the horror, maintain that numb detachment, but inactivity was taking its toll and my composure was wearing thin and shadowy questions were beginning to take shape in the back of my mind. I couldn’t ask myself those questions. The horror was there, and it involved much more than Vanessa’s accident, and I didn’t want to look too closely. I didn’t dare. I couldn’t ask the questions, because I knew instinctively that the answers would materialize this time and I couldn’t face them.
I left the drawing room. I moved slowly down the narrow passageway and stepped into the great front hall with its high gallery and Brussels tapestries and the collection of ancient weapons. The candles in the huge brass chandelier were unlighted, and the immense, ornate chairs cast long shadows over the black and white marble floor. Only a few nights ago Edward and I had been standing here, bidding guests farewell, but now the room was like a museum room, stately, cold, without personality. I pulled open the heavy front door and stepped outside, and I stood on the steps for a moment looking at the untidy, riotously colorful gardens beyond the drive, blazing now in the last burst of sunlight. The shadow of the great house was gradually creeping over them, quenching the colors, those flowers nearest the house already drab under the blue-black pall, those further away still flaming in brilliant hues of red and purple, yellow and gold.
I moved down to the drive and turned to look up at the house. The huge brown stone walls loomed up in stolid, ponderous majesty, the heavily-leaded windows gleaming an opaque blue-gray. The immense columned portico seemed to be waiting solemnly for someone to pass under it. Mallyncourt stood heavy and impassive, guarding its secrets. I turned away, walking slowly around the drive toward the stables. No grooms were in sight. The horses moved uneasily in their stalls, restless, as though fully aware of that one empty stall and knowing the reason for it. As the end of the drive the carriage house stood, half in sunlight, half in shadow, the great doors open to reveal the gleaming vehicles within. I headed toward it, moving over the crushed-shell drive, and then I turned, crossing the cobbled yard, passing down the side of the stable buildings, and a moment later I was at the top of the avenue of limes.
I paused, staring down that long, narrow expanse of uneven ground, the trees tall and close on either side. It was spread with flickering patterns of sunlight and shade, and at the end, far away, I could see the fields bathed in light. I hadn’t intended to come here. I hadn’t even intended to come outside. It was … it was almost as though something had drawn me here, some inexplicable force that compegled me to obey. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to go further. I wanted to turn and rush back to the house, for I was afraid, my nerves taut, voices inside warning me that I mustn’t look too closely, I mustn’t ask those questions again. There was something else inside, too, something hard and determined, something icy cold. I had to see. I had to know.
I stood there with my brow creased, the wind fluttering my hair, and I was torn by the conflict inside, not wanting to obey that compelling force, wanting to deny the truth and hold the horror back, yet knowing I couldn’t, knowing the questions had to be answered. Several minutes passed. The sky was a dark slate gray now, the sunlight a deep, deep orange, fading. The shadows over the ground were thickening, spreading rapidly. I squared my shoulders. I took a deep breath. Slowly, calmly, I started down the avenue of limes. Tree boughs groaned mournfully in the wind. Leaves rustled with a stiff crackling noise. My skirt and petticoats billowed as I moved, and strands of auburn hair kept blowing across my face. I brushed them away impatiently, continuing toward my destination.
I was wrong. I had to be wrong. It was the sheerest folly even to consider it. It wasn’t possible. There was no way. Was there? How? How could it have been arranged? I gnawed my lower lip, hoping I was wrong, knowing I must be. I would find nothing. Of course I wouldn’t. I merely had to put this treacherous doubt to rest once and for all. Her death had been an accident. Of course it had. The horse had thrown her. Her neck had been broken. An accident. The wind grew stronger, whipping my skirts into a frenzy of flapping cloth. I stopped. I stood staring down at the ground.
They had taken the horse away, but the blood was still there, dry now, rusty brown, caked thickly on the grass, and there was a splinter of bone, too. I shuddered, horrified by the sight, unable to look away. I could see the clods of earth that had been torn up when the horse stumbled, and over there, several yards away, the grass was flattened, crushed down when her body fell. An accident. It couldn’t have been anything else. I felt a great wave of relief, that horrible doubt vanishing. How could I possibly have entertained it even for a moment? I turned away from the grisly scene and started back up the avenue, and it was then that I caught sight of the gray velvet hat with its long curling blue plumes.
It was on the ground, among the trees on the left side of the avenue, undoubtedly thrown there when she fell. I went over to pick it up, and then I saw the cord tied around the trunk of the tree, perhaps a foot from the bottom. It was tightly knotted, one frayed end dangling down to the ground. I stared at it, comprehending immediately, expecting great waves of emotion to sweep over me. None came. I knew now, and the certainty was strangely calming. I crossed the avenue and bent down to examine the tree trunks on that side. There was no cord, but the bark of one of the trunks had a deep ridge scratched around it where the cord had been. If I looked, I would probably find the whole length of cord hidden in the woods, but there was no need to look. I knew. I think I had known when I was standing there in the back hall, when I first heard the scream.
Wearily, I started back to the house. The shadows were deeper, the wavering rays of sunlight a darker orange. I had rarely been so calm, so completely in control of myself. The questions came, and there was an answer for each. Each piece of the puzzle materialized in my mind, each fit into place, making a complete picture. Lyman had called me a naive little fool. He was right. He had known. He had known all along. That was why he had been lurking in the hall of the east wing tha
t night. He had wanted to make sure. I had to make sure, too. I passed the stables and crossed the cobbled yard. Moving up the walk, I opened the side door of the house and started down the narrow passageway leading to the back hall. I had to go to the east wing. I had to see the proof with my own eyes, and I was certain now that I would find it.
The back hall was dim, filled with shadows. My footsteps echoed as I walked down it. There was no other sound. That tomblike atmosphere still prevailed. I might have been completely alone in the house. I turned at the well and moved slowly up the wide, flat steps, the steps built to accommodate the horses of those long-dead equestrians who had galloped up and down the gallery on wintry days. The gallery was a vast, shadowy cavern, only a few rays of orange light slanting through the recesses, fading almost as soon as they touched the mat of woven rushes. No one was about. The servants, usually so much in evidence, might all have disappeared. I crossed to the door leading into the east wing. It should have been locked, but it wasn’t. I turned the handle, and the door opened, squeaking rustily on its hinges. Closing it behind me, I started down the narrow hall.
It was much darker here, everything a hazy blue-grjy, and dustier even than I remembered. Cobwebs billowed from the ceiling, swaying to and fro in the currents of cold, fetid air. The tomblike atmosphere was even more pronounced here, augmented by the smell of decay, a strong, sour smell of mildew and yellowing paper. The silence was unbroken except for the sound of my footsteps. The noise echoed disturbingly, reverberating against the close walls and making it sound as though someone followed close behind me. I refused to let it bother me. I refused to give way to the nervous apprehension building up inside. I had to see. I had to know. I couldn’t give way to nerves, not now.
I passed into the big room with the great chandelier dangling from the high, flaking ceiling. Dim orange sunlight streamed through the curtainless windows, giving a pinkish cast to the dust sheets covering the furniture, making pools on the bare parquet floor. There was a low creaking noise. I stopped abruptly, my pulses leaping. The noise had come from the hall I had just passed down. It … it had sounded like someone stealthily opening the door. I peered down the hall. It was a long nest of blue-black shadow, and I couldn’t see the door. My heart seemed to stand still, and I waited, listening, but there was no repetition of the noise and I knew it must have been something else. No stealthy footsteps sounded. No floorboards groaned. Relieved, I moved on toward that other hall that would take me to the room with the red walls.
Midnight at Mallyncourt Page 22
