Death in the Castle

by Pearl S. Buck

  He was after her at once. “May I come with you? I’ve lost my way, I’m afraid, and I left my car somewhere.”

  She had to down him. “You shouldn’t have come into the grounds without permission.”

  “Well, you see—”

  “I don’t see! I still say it’s trespassing!”

  They faced each other, eyes gazing into eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said and turned away.

  She let him walk twenty yards or so and then she called again. Oh, she could be wicked, too, a cat playing with a mouse! “Did you happen by any chance to see an old man wandering about? We’ve lost him.”

  He walked halfway back. “Lost him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does he look?”

  “I’ve never seen him to know who he was.”

  “Then how can you say you’ve lost him?”

  “Not I, exactly! He came to see Sir Richard—about the castle. We’re rather glad he’s lost.”

  “Glad?”

  “Yes, but I suppose he must be found.” She walked toward him. “Come along—you may as well join in the search now that you’re here. He’s a sort of monster, you know.”

  “Monster?”

  “Yes, with money,” and in the way she said “money” was all her passionate defense of the castle.

  They were walking side by side. Accidentally, of course, she was not looking at him, but he stealing looks at her; she continued absently, as if it did not matter what she said to a transient, a wanderer, who had no business here and could not be concerned.

  “He wants to buy the castle.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, for a museum. We love the castle and we loathe him.”

  “Then why do you sell the castle?”

  “It’s not mine. It belongs to the family. But I’ve lived here all my life. My father was born here. So was my grandfather.”

  She stopped and sighed. “But why should we bother to find him? I’ve looked everywhere. Perhaps he’s gone away. I hope he has. And I’ll take you to the service entrance.”

  “Thank you.”

  They walked in silence for a moment until she saw the car. Yes, it was a green car.

  “This is your motorcar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice—”

  She looked at it carelessly and turned away, “Well—good-bye.”

  “Would you—”

  “Yes?”

  “I shouldn’t ask but—now that I’m here—”

  “What?”

  “I do want to see the inside of the castle. I’ve heard about it. An ancient man was here but he couldn’t let me go in.”

  “That was my grandfather.”

  “You don’t look a bit like him!”

  “How could I?”

  “Then will you—”

  He smiled at her and she tried not to smile back. “Will you go away at once if I let you see the castle?”

  “If you want me to—”

  “I won’t take you to the part where the family lives, you know.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Very well, then—but only for a bit.”

  With elaborate deceit she began the tour she knew so well. There was no one in the kitchens, no one in the pantry. She led him up a small winding staircase to a narrow passage, and then up still another staircase to small old rooms above, talking as she went.

  “This is the original part of the castle. Queen Elizabeth was the one who built it bigger. Shakespeare was here, they say, and here he showed the Queen his Midsummer Night’s Dream. And quite recently, Charles Dickens was here.”

  “Recently?”

  “Only a century ago—that’s nothing—”

  “How does this part connect with the rest?”

  “There’s a passage here. Be careful! That’s a trapdoor.”

  She drew him aside hastily. He looked down and saw at his feet a heavy iron ring in a rotting floor.

  “Trapdoors everywhere,” she explained. “They lead straight down to the dungeons.”

  “Dungeons?”

  “The castle was a royal seat for five hundred years, and kings and queens are always putting people in dungeons, it seems—or used to. You could have fallen for miles, you know.”

  “Not really miles?”

  “I daresay you would think it miles if you were falling.”

  They laughed together unexpectedly and something warm was in the laughter. Now it was she who stumbled suddenly on a warped board and he caught her.

  “Careful there—”

  She drew away from him. “I’m quite all right, thank you. I know the castle, probably better than anyone. I used to explore it as a child.”

  “Weren’t you ever frightened?”

  “Not really—I felt safe here. I was accustomed to being alone. And they were always kind to me.”

  “They?”

  “Sir Richard and Lady Mary.”

  Why was she telling him all this? Like as not he was laughing at her. She glanced at him and saw no difference in the smiling eyes. But the joke was ended for her. She put out her hand frankly.

  “Of course I know who you are, Mr. Blayne. I can’t think why I’ve been—mischievous!”

  His mouth twitched—ah, it was a good mouth, sensitive and warm.

  “I haven’t been quite honest, either, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “But you couldn’t know me,” she exclaimed.

  “No, but I’ve had a hunch—”

  “Hunch?”

  “An idea—a conviction—all along, that you knew who I was and why I was here.”

  “Oh—”

  “So now that we’ve both confessed and are honest again, will you tell me who you really are?”

  She looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m Kate.”

  “Kate? Kate who?”

  “Kate Wells, the maid.”

  “Miss Kate Wells,” he said slowly, looking down into her flushed face.

  “Just Kate.” She drew back and then stepped ahead of him. “This way, please, Mr. Blayne. They are waiting for you in the great hall.”

  She went ahead of him through passages so narrow that there was no possibility of their walking side by side until she came to the small door which led into the great hall. There she was delayed for a moment because the latch was rusty and would not turn. He caught up with her.

  “Please—”

  She refused to yield. “You don’t know the latch as well as I do. It’ll give in a minute.”

  He waited for the minute and then took her by the shoulders and set her firmly aside. She caught her breath in surprise and said nothing. Let him! He wouldn’t be able to move the latch, but he’d have to find out for himself, cocksure as he was. To her chagrin the willful latch yielded at once and the door swung open. Inside the hall the four young men, who had long since given up their search, were sitting in the carved oaken chairs. At sight of him they made cries more of welcome than surprise.

  “Here’s John Preston Blayne at last!”

  “And we thought you were lost!”

  Kate broke across their exclamations. “I don’t think you’ve been looking for him at all.”

  The youngest one grinned clean across his face. “We didn’t need to, did we? He always turns up, and in the best of company.”

  John Blayne laughed.

  “We’ve brought the blueprints and are ready to get to work, John, just as soon as you say the word.” To prove it, the young man unrolled a set of papers he had been holding and spread them out flat on the table.

  “Work!” Kate exclaimed. “Whatever do they mean?” Startled, she looked from the sheets of blue paper to Mr. Blayne, then to each of the four young men in turn, all of them looking so out of place in the great hall of the castle.

  “Lay off, fellows,” John Blayne said good-naturedly. “I don’t blame Miss Wells for being shocked. You’re premature. Things aren’t settled yet, not by a long shot. Fold up your tents now and
steal away until tomorrow. You have rooms at the village inn.”

  Levity was blown away like mist before a gale. In spite of his casual air, John Blayne’s voice held authority. The young men looked at one another. The eldest coughed and cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, John, it’s lucky you turned up at this moment. I’m glad nothing is settled. The job is impossible.”

  John Blayne looked from one of his men to another and Kate saw his face harden. Tough, was he? Or just used to getting his own way?

  “Impossible?” he said quietly. “I don’t recognize the word.”

  “The beams are too weak,” one young man urged.

  Kate burst into the argument. “Weak, are they? You’d be weak, if you’d been put up a thousand years ago. Weak! They’re as solid as the Bank of England.”

  John Blayne threw her a look, amused again and gay. “Thank you, Miss Wells. And you, fellows—I know the castle isn’t Buckingham or Windsor, it’s too old. That’s the beauty of it, and that’s why we must take it down, stone by stone—”

  They went into chorus again. “Part of it is brick”—“Those bricks will crumble to dust”—“We’re lucky if we can transport half of them.”

  He cut them short. “You underestimate English workmanship!”

  The argument grew hot. The nameless young men—and Kate was sure they were nameless because they looked so much alike, with their short noses and strong chins and similar haircuts—rushed into the deepening fray.

  “You’ve done a lot of crazy things, John, but this is the craziest.”

  “Remember that Japanese temple you bought and took to New York? Still lying in the warehouse—even the Met wouldn’t have it—nobody dares to tackle putting it together again. Why don’t you use that for a museum?”

  “And that painting you said had to be restored—”

  John Blayne stood rock firm, smiling, enjoying the onslaught, waiting until they were out of breath.

  “Now,” he said. “Have you got everything off your chests? Yes, I’m crazy—but I get what I want in the end, remember that! Why don’t I put up the Japanese temple? Some day, at the right time in the right place, I will, and I’ll dare you chaps to tackle the job and you’ll take the dare. I don’t want a temple for a museum, the ghosts of Buddhist monks meditating among fat Rubens women and Roman gods and goddesses! A castle is exactly what I want and exactly what I’ll have. And I was right about the painting, wasn’t I? Under that hodgepodge of oils there was a Raphael. I could smell it. I shall hang it right there, above the chimney piece.”

  Grim silence fell. The eldest young man sighed and took a notebook and pencil from his pocket “All right, but it will cost a small fortune—every brick to be wrapped in tissue paper—”

  “Remind me to order a hundred tons of tissue paper.”

  “And ships to transport the bricks and stone—”

  “Remind me to order ten ships instead of the two we have.”

  The young man turned to his fellows and shrugged, his eyebrows arched in dismay.

  “All right, men, let’s take his dare and tear down the castle!”

  Kate could bear no more. She stood listening to the arguments in progressive horror. She looked now at the blueprints outspread upon the table and saw the castle standing not on this green English hill, but in a rugged landscape somewhere far away, and surrounded not by English meadows and by calm brooks, but by wooded mountains and a rocky seacoast. Comprehension flashed upon her mind.

  “You’re not—you’re not going to take the castle to America? But that’s insane, Mr. Blayne! It can’t be done, besides Sir Richard won’t allow it. I’m sure he thought the museum was to be here! Wait—I’ll fetch him and Lady Mary. No—no—they’ll never be able to bear the shock. Oh, how to tell them …”

  She hesitated and wrung her hands. The door behind her opened. Wells looked in and turned to announce what he saw.

  “The gentleman’s been found. Sir Richard, and my lady!”

  They were there before she could speak, the two of them coming in together, bravely smiling. Sir Richard put out his hand.

  “How do you do, Mr. Blayne? You gave us quite a start, not knowing who you were exactly nor where you’d gone. It’s shockingly easy to be lost in the grounds hereabout. I’m sorry—do forgive us!”

  John Blayne accepted the hearty handshake and controlled his instinctive wince. What a grip these old Englishmen had! “My fault entirely, Sir Richard. I shouldn’t have been so unceremonious in my arrival.”

  He turned to Lady Mary. “My apologies to you, too, Lady Mary.”

  She was pink with effort, Kate observed. Ah, the sweet darling, trying so hard not to mind! Kate glanced at Mr. Blayne, then looked quickly away. She would not help him one bit in his predicament. Let him struggle his way through the mess he’d made, not telling the truth to poor Sir Richard, who’d never have consented had he known—but Lady Mary was talking in her high fluting voice, her public voice, with which she opened bazaars and spoke at charity teas.

  “Mr. Blade—”

  “Blayne, my dear,” Sir Richard put in.

  “Ah yes—I’m sorry—American names are so difficult! I do assure you, now that we’re used to the idea, we’re almost quite reconciled, you know—it’s a rather lovely idea to think of treasures of art hanging on our old walls—I daresay from our little nook in the gatehouse we’ll come here often, as tourists, you know, and all that—Shan’t we, Kate?”

  She turned to Kate, but that stubborn young woman, her eyes brimming with tears, merely nodded. Lady Mary, seeing the tears, stared at her in amazement.

  “Kate, whatever’s wrong with you? Look, Richard, Kate’s crying!”

  “I’m not crying,” Kate said passionately. “It’s just that I’m trying not to—to—to—sneeze.”

  She turned her back and made a fine mock sneeze.

  Lady Mary appealed prettily to John Blayne. “Oh dear, these old castles are damp, you know, Mr. Blayne. I hope you’ll be prepared. I hope you aren’t thinking of central heating and all that—bad for paintings, I’m sure. We’ve never considered it for ourselves, in spite of being quite miserably cold sometimes, especially if it’s a gray winter without proper sun.”

  “You are very kind, Lady Mary,” he said gently. He glanced at Kate’s back.

  “So surprising for an American,” Sir Richard was saying, “this love of the past and your wanting an old castle—”

  John Blayne glanced about the hall. He was facing his predicament alone. The four young men had taken his suggestion and removed themselves and the blueprints to the village inn. Kate stood at a window, her back obdurate. He rushed into hasty speech.

  “Surprising, perhaps, Sir Richard, but I inherit my love of art from my mother. She loved old paintings and my father bought them for her—as an indulgence, I’m afraid. He hasn’t the same taste. As it is, they’ve turned out to be his best investment now. I say now, because when my mother began collecting pictures before she died, about fifteen years ago, and it was apparent that I was to be the only child—which has nothing to do with anything, exactly, except that she wanted something to take up her mind when I was sent to Groton—my father thought it was an absurd obsession. But she went ahead and became really a connoisseur of twelfth- and thirteenth-century art which she afterwards extended to include as late as the seventeenth, particularly English.”

  “Interesting,” said Sir Richard.

  “My father adored her, and let her have her way. But when she died and her estate was assessed he was amazed—not to say floored—when our lawyers told him the collection was a very fine one, worth something over a hundred million dollars, and likely to triple that amount in his lifetime. He decided immediately that he would build a vaultlike sort of place in which to store the collection, a sort of private Fort Knox.”

  “Very interesting,” said Sir Richard.

  “But that seemed to me to be nothing short of a crime, because paintings are meant to be seen, you know, an
d so I protested. I must confess I could never have won against my father, if our lawyers had not had the bright idea of a Foundation.”

  “But, surely,” Lady Mary observed, “the building would have had a foundation in any case.”

  John Blayne stared, then smiled. “No, no, Lady Mary—a ‘foundation’ in America means a fund set aside for a non-profit purpose, a public service of some sort. As our lawyers have pointed out to my father, if he builds a museum which would be open to the public, he will be able to finance it from this Foundation, which would be tax-deductible.”

  Lady Mary turned to Sir Richard. “Do you understand what he’s saying?”

  “Not yet, my dear,” Sir Richard replied. “But I daresay I shall, in time.”

  “Do stay for luncheon with us so we can go on talking, Mr. …” Lady Mary paused.

  “Blayne,” Sir Richard supplied.

  “I’d be delighted,” John Blayne said, smiling down at the pair of them. “I wonder if you know how perfect you are in this setting—it’s a way you English have, I think, of looking as though you’ve built your backgrounds to suit.”

  “They’ve built us, I fear,” Sir Richard said, returning the smile but dimly.

  Kate could bear no more. She turned on them in a fury. “Lady Mary, my dear, and Sir Richard, I assure you, neither of you has the faintest idea—I hadn’t myself until—”

  John Blayne threw her a desperate glance. “Miss Wells, please, I beg you. We have a lot to talk about of course, and I—”

  “You’re very right,” Kate said hotly, “but it had better be said now. Sir Richard, I think you should know you and my lady—”

  John Blayne was suddenly as angry as she. “Really, Miss Wells, this is entirely between Sir Richard and me. I don’t see why you—Sir Richard, there has been a misunderstanding, which certainly can be set straight. On second thought, I’m not sure it is even a misunderstanding—perhaps only on the part of Miss Wells. Of course, she has not seen our correspondence.”

  “They’d have told me,” Kate put in.

  “Kate dear,” Lady Mary said, wondering. “I can’t think why you keep interrupting Mr. Blade.”

  “Blayne, my dear,” Sir Richard said, but was ignored.

  “It’s he who is interrupting me, my lady,” Kate said with passion.