12

“Ranjit Singh,” Liz was saying. “They called him ‘the lion of the Punjab’ and he was young and devilishly handsome and fabulously wealthy, the most powerful prince in all India. She was still Eliza James then—this was before she changed her name to Lola—married to that bounder who deserted her for another woman. Anyway, the Maharajah saw her. He wanted her, longed to drape her in exotic silks, smother her in precious jewels, but Lola rejected him. Her husband was off in Karnal, fighting in the First Afghan War, and she was completely faithful to him, never suspecting that he was even then writing impassioned letters to—”

Stephen listened patiently, apparently completely absorbed by this account and giving no indication whatsoever that his mind could be elsewhere. Liz was perched on the arm of the sofa, a cup of tea in one hand, the other sweeping the air in a dramatic gesture, and Stephen was sitting back comfortably, arms resting along the back of the sofa, legs spread out in front of him. Brilliant sunlight streamed through the sitting room windows. The clock showed ten fifteen. I was both amazed and appalled. The sedative he had forced me to take late last night had put me to sleep immediately, and I was still a bit groggy, certainly in no mood to endure Liz’s excitable chatter. They both looked up as I entered. Stephen nodded. Liz broke off in the middle of her sentence and made a complete change of subject without the slightest difficulty.

“I cooked breakfast this morning,” she told me. “Omelets. They were a stunning success. We had waffles, too, and Stephen made the most delicious popovers. You look awful, Janie. You look like you have a hangover. That dance must have been something! Ron called. He wants to take you out to dinner tonight. He’s going to be busy at the university most of the day, but he’ll call again after six. I think it’s ever so nice of Stephen to spend the morning with us, don’t you? We’ve been having the most interesting talk—”

“Coffee,” I said.

“There isn’t any,” she informed me. “No tea, either. This was the last cup. You could have done something with your hair, Janie. It looks like you—”

“Go make a pot of coffee,” I said crisply, “and don’t come back until it’s ready. I want to talk to Stephen. Where are Keith and Becky?”

“Keith’s out in his shed, tinkering with his boring machine. Becky’s over at Augusta’s. I don’t know why you can’t make coffee yourself. I may be a minor, I may be a mere teen-ager, but that doesn’t make me a servant! I was just getting to the most interesting part of my story, and—”

“Out!”

“Everyone persecutes me,” she said with tragic emphasis. “No one has any consideration whatsoever. I can’t help it if I’m sensitive. It isn’t my fault I’m so highly strung. People expect me to wait on them hand and foot! My artistic temperament is thwarted on every side—”

My expression clearly indicated that I would brook no insubordination and, seeing it, Liz abandoned her argument, rolled her eyes in exasperation and left the room as though on her way to a firing squad. Stephen made no effort to rise. He regarded me with lazy speculation, pondering what to make of me. Not expecting to find him still here, I was wearing my nightgown and robe. I probably looked every bit as awful as Liz had so pointedly observed, but there were more important things on my mind.

“They don’t know?”

“They haven’t the least inkling,” he said.

“I’m not sure it’s wise for Becky to be with Augusta—”

“Augusta’s not going to say anything. Remarkable woman.”

“She’s been informed, of course?”

“I went to see her early this morning. I broke the news. I tried to question her. I wasn’t very successful.”

“Then she knows who you are—why you’re here?”

“I told her. I had to. She didn’t bat a lash. She said I was no better than the local cops and added that I probably spend three-fourths of my time throwing tear gas at college students and beating up innocent citizens who’d committed some minor traffic violation. She could tell at a glance I had a mean, sadistic streak and said I probably intended to beat her with a rubber hose but that didn’t matter in the least. If I expected her to talk to a cop I was very much mistaken.”

“She—wasn’t broken up?”

“Apparently not. She said she knew something like this would happen to that wretched girl and was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Her main concern seemed to be the imminent arrival of her nephew and niece-in-law in Abbotstown, an inevitability she found both irksome and trying. While her nephew, if totally shiftless, is at least tolerable, his wife is without doubt the flightiest, flippiest creature she’s ever had the misfortune to encounter.”

“That’s just her way,” I said quietly. “The—the girl meant a great deal to her. Augusta’s hatefulness is merely a cover-up.”

“I expect you’re right,” Stephen agreed. “She asked me to send Becky over, claimed she was in the mood for a rousing game of cards. I had the impression she didn’t want to be alone.”

“I hope she doesn’t let anything slip—”

“She won’t,” Stephen said confidently. “I told her it would be better if the child didn’t know anything about this just yet. She almost snapped my head off, asked if I took her for an addlepated fool or was I merely mentally retarded.”

I had been standing in front of the fine Adam fireplace, staring down at the hearth, and I moved over to sink into one of the overstuffed chairs, my head throbbing. Liz was banging things around in the kitchen, defiantly making as much racket as possible. Chin in hand, I gazed at the worn Persian carpet, looking at the faded floral pattern without even seeing it. My mind elsewhere, I was totally unaware of Stephen’s presence. I suppose I was still in shock, or perhaps it was the lingering effects of the sedative he had given me. I kept remembering that crumpled body, those wildly disarrayed auburn locks spilling over the mats. It was something I would never be able to forget.

“You held up well last night,” Stephen said.

“Did I? I can hardly remember.”

“You followed my instructions to the letter. You did a fine job.”

“I was stunned.”

“Nevertheless, Jane, you showed remarkable fortitude. Most women I know would have gone to pieces.”

“I wanted to.”

“You didn’t. That’s what counts.”

I didn’t reply. The aftermath of my discovery was still a blur of horror. Stephen had been livid when he burst into the storage room, calling me every kind of an idiot, asking me if I’d taken leave of my senses. When he saw the body his manner changed abruptly. He gripped my arms. He gave me sharp, terse instructions. I was to go back to the dance. I was to say nothing. No one must suspect for a moment that I knew anything about this. The police would come. They would take care of everything. I was to act as if nothing had happened. I obeyed. I seemed to be in a trance. I danced and I chatted, and Ron and I left just as two police cars were pulling into the parking lot. We picked up the children. We went home. I told Ron good night. I insisted the children go straight to bed. Stephen arrived shortly after two. I was in the front parlor, wringing my hands, still wearing my backless dress. He marched me upstairs, forced me to take the sedative he found in Ian’s medicine cabinet. It was all part of a nightmare that had begun the moment I stepped into that basement room.

“How did you know where to find me last night?” I asked.

“Pure guesswork. I finally got rid of that God-awful Mrs. Willoughby-whatshername and I looked around for you, couldn’t find you anywhere. I asked one of the women at the punch bowl if she’d seen you and she told me she’d seen you going out into the hall a few minutes before.”

“Cynthia wanted to talk to me. She had something important to tell me. I was certain it concerned—all this drug business.”

“It may have.”

“She was an addict, wasn’t she?”

He nodded grimly.

“Do the police have any idea who—”

“Not a clue,” he said.

“That boy she was with—Ralph. He looked belligerent.”

“Ralph Gregory. He never left the gym. He joined a group of his cronies as soon as Cynthia left him, grew more and more impatient when she didn’t return. His story’s been checked out. He couldn’t have killed her.”

“Stephen, there was someone in the hall—that second hall leading to the staircase. I thought I heard footsteps approaching. I—I thought I saw someone in the shadows.”

“You very likely did, and it’s a wonder you weren’t murdered yourself! When I think of the bloody stupidity of your leaving like that—oh well, I needn’t cover that ground again. I pretty well expressed my sentiments last night when I finally found you.”

I looked up as Liz flounced in bearing a cup of coffee. She handed it to me with considerable belligerence, then stalked out of the room again. I hardly noticed. I stared down at the cup in my hand, frowning, then looked at Stephen again. He was standing at the window, holding the drape back with one hand, looking outside.

“I should have thought you’d be gone,” I said. “This was supposed to be secretive. Half the neighborhood will see you leaving.”

“That hardly matters now. Things have gone too far. You saw someone in the hall last night. He saw you. The time for you to play the blithe innocent is over. He knows you’re wise now, and he probably suspects you’ve contacted the police. He probably suspects a stakeout, has probably figured out we’re using you as bait—but we’ve still got one thing in our favor: he believes the briefcase is still here in the house, and he’ll act accordingly.”

“But if he thinks the police are involved—”

“He’ll still make his move, no matter what the risk. The narcotics in that briefcase are worth damned near two hundred thousand pounds. He’s not going to let anything make him run scared, not with that much at stake.”

“I see,” I replied.

“He’ll make his move soon. I’m sure of it.”

My first thought was for the children. I couldn’t let them be exposed to any more danger, no matter how much police protection they had. I would take them to Turnbell Green. It was only twenty miles away, and my Aunt Georginna lived there on a ramshackle Tudor estate on the edge of town. She was in her sixties, a loud, rough, rackety old dame who spent most of her time in jodhpurs and riding jacket, slapping a riding crop across the tops of her boots and bellowing commands to her stable boys in the voice of a rugged sergeant major. A widow now, she bred some of the finest horses in the country and had little use for anyone not avid for hunts and races. Ian and I had never been able to abide her, had avoided her at all costs, and the children thought their great-aunt as loathsome as we had, turning pale at the thought of being in her company for more than five minutes, but I’d take them to her nevertheless. I should have done so two days ago. I should never have allowed them to remain here under the circumstances.

Stephen approved of my plan when I told him what I intended to do. He said he would drive me to Turnbell Green.

“I’ve got to go to the police station for a couple of hours,” he told me. “I should be back around noon. We’ll leave then. I wish to hell I could leave you there, too, but it’s important you be here. He may try some kind of direct contact.”

“Direct contact?” My voice was not entirely steady.

“He may phone, may try to make a deal with you, talk you into giving the briefcase to him for a cut of the profits.”

“If he does?”

“You’ll accept,” he informed me.

“You expect me to—”

“I expect you to obey my instructions to the letter,” he said crisply. His expression was severe, his eyes dark blue, hard. “You can’t back out now. When we have this bastard, when we’ve rounded up all his henchmen, then you can do what you damned well please. Until then, you’ll do what I say. You’ll display the same brand of intestinal fortitude you displayed last night.”

“You sound rather certain of that,” I snapped.

“I am. I saw the way you acted under fire.”

“If you think I’m some sort of fearless heroine with nerves of steel, you couldn’t be more mistaken. The mere thought of all this makes me want to—to crawl under a bed and stay there!”

Stephen smiled. “But you won’t,” he said. “You’ll bear up like the stout-hearted trouper you are.” He glanced at the clock. “I’d best be off now. Clark and I have to compare notes. I’ll see you shortly after twelve. Oh, incidently, I’ll need to use your brother’s car. The keys?”

I fetched the keys. I gave them to him, considerably irritated. No girl likes to be called stout-hearted, nor does she like to be complimented on her intestinal fortitude. I saw myself as extremely feminine, prey to all the weaknesses attributed to the sex, and the picture of me Stephen Brent presented was hardly in keeping with that image. I wasn’t courageous, nor was I strong and intrepid. If I had acted well “under fire,” as he put it, it was simply because I had had too much common sense to give way to the stark hysteria that had threatened to overwhelm me. I’d see this through, yes, because it was my duty, because I had given my promise to Constable Clark, certainly not because I possessed any of the unflattering characteristics Mr. Brent attributed to me.

“You look better,” Stephen remarked as we stood in the front hall, “a bit more spirited than when you first came down.”

“You probably mean stout-hearted!”

“Oh, did you find that description offensive?”

“Be careful with my brother’s car,” I retorted. “He’d have apoplexy if one of the fenders were scratched, and I’d be blamed for it. Good bye, Mr. Brent.”

Stephen left, and I went back upstairs, feeling, if not spirited, at least a great deal less lethargic and groggy than I had felt earlier on. I took a long, hot, soaking bath, and that helped quite a bit. I found myself clear-minded and resolute, determined to take each step as it came. I might not be able to forget last night, but I realized I would have to put it out of my mind if I intended to cope. I would have loved to spend the day in bed, prostrate, overcome, a damp cloth over my eyes, a bottle of smelling salts at hand, but it simply wasn’t feasible. The first ordeal I had facing me was the necessity of informing the children that they were to spend some time with their Great-Aunt Georginna. I was confident that their reactions to this bit of news would be far more bloodcurdling than anything else I might be called upon to face.

We go on, I thought, pulling on my bathrobe and stepping into the bedroom to inspect the clothes in the wardrobe. Tragedy strikes, we feel lost, we feel helpless, we feel we’ll never be able to continue, but we go on. Cynthia was dead, brutally and viciously murdered only minutes before I reached the storage room. I had been stunned, horrified, shaken to the core, but I had returned to the gym, I had danced, I had chatted with Ron with at least some semblance of coherence. We had fetched the children, I had sent them to bed, but even then, as I waited for Stephen, I hadn’t completely fallen apart. Cynthia was dead, but outside the sky was an incredibly lovely blue, washed with dazzling silver-white sunlight, and a bird was singing on a branch of the pear tree. Last night I would have thought it impossible that I could be standing here now, calmly trying to select something to wear.

It was well after eleven when I finally went back downstairs, wearing a rust-colored turtleneck sweater and short, pleated skirt of rust, brown, black and gray tweed, a stylish but sensible outfit that even my highly critical Aunt Georginna would be hard pressed to find fault with. I had brushed my hair until it gleamed with rich chestnut highlights, and my cheeks were a healthy pink. Although I cringed at the thought, I was ready for battle, and, as Keith and Liz were both idling about in the hall, I saw no reason to delay dropping my bombshell.

“Hello, pets,” I said charmingly.

“You look nice this morning,” Keith remarked. In jeans and a soiled T-shirt, a streak of grease across his chin, he looked anything but.

“You should have seen her earlier,” Liz told him. “She looked like death warmed over. Hair all tangled. Bags under her eyes. She had the most spectacular hangover.”

“That’s not true,” I protested.

“I was shocked. So was Stephen,” she added.

“Did you enjoy the dance?” Keith inquired.

“It was a—a nice dance,” I said evasively.

“I’d have been bored to tears,” Liz stated. “Artists haven’t time for such shabby, provincial little affairs. A grand ball in a glittering palace, perhaps—Lola adored them—but a sock hop at the local gym—” She shook her head disparagingly, “I ask you.”

“You’d have given your eye teeth to be there,” Keith said dryly.

“That’s a lie! You think you’re so smart, Keith. You don’t know anything! You’re a boor and a bore and a thorough—”

“I have something to tell you both,” I interrupted.

“Oh?” Keith asked, mildly curious.

“What?” Liz said, suspicious.

“Uh—” I paused. “You children are going to take a little trip.”

“Where?” Keith asked.

“Why?” Liz said.

I hesitated. Keith still looked mildly curious. Liz looked even more suspicious. I told them. There was a moment of stunned silence while both stared at me in disbelief, and then Liz threw what could only be called a walleyed fit. She’d rather be shot than go there, she shrieked. The whole place reeked of hay and manure. She detested horses. She detested Aunt Georginna. She flatly refused to step foot in that hellhole and, if I insisted, would hurl herself in front of the first moving vehicle that came along. Keith, ordinarily reserved, almost always mild, complained bitterly and in a startlingly loud bellow that Georginna’s habit of charging up and down the halls with a trumpet at five thirty in the morning and yelling “Rise and shine!” in between blasts was more than anyone should be expected to endure. I let them rant and rave to their hearts’ content, and when they were finally spent, too exhausted to say more, told them in an extremely firm voice to go change their clothes and pack a few things to carry along with them. Pale and visibly shaken, Keith marched past me with a stony expression. Liz made an exit that would have done credit to Bernhardt in her prime. I took a deep breath, knowing full well that Becky’s reaction would be even more vociferous when she was informed of my plans.

Becky was still with Augusta. I would have to go fetch her. I might as well get that over with, too, I thought, listening to the racket Keith and Liz were making upstairs. Stephen would be returning in less than an hour, and Becky would undoubtedly require a thorough washing as well as a change of clothes.

The sunlight was dazzling as I stepped outside, pure and white, making sunbursts on the car in the drive, and deep blue shadows spread beneath the leafy green shrubbery. The air was crisp, unusually cool for this time of year. Dreading it, I went next door to the majestic old Tudor house set beneath the spreading elms. Still in the same brown nylon windbreaker, his deeply tanned face impassive, the redheaded “gardener” was working away. Having already done as much damage as possible to the privet hedge, he was weeding the flower beds, bronze and yellow chrysanthemums receiving almost as rough treatment as the weeds. I could feel him watching me as I moved up the walk to the front door. I knocked. I waited. After what seemed an exceptionally long time, the door opened and Augusta peered out at me, her expression decidedly belligerent.

“So you’ve come to visit at last!” she snorted. “Come on in. Don’t stand there gawking! I’m not going to gobble you up. You out there! Watch those chrysanthemums! You lop one more of ’em off and I’ll file a complaint with your superior. Cops!” she said bitterly, pulling me into the hall. “I shoulda suspected something yesterday! Knew he wasn’t genuine. Knew it the minute I laid eyes on him. If they intend to station a man out there I suppose there’s not much I can do about it, but if they think I’m going to let that hooligan wreck my garden—” She slammed the door hotly.

“How—how are you?” I asked timidly.

“How do you think I am! Expect to see me in tears? Expect to see me weeping and wailing? I loved that girl. I won’t deny it. She was a bad ’un, I won’t pretend she wasn’t, but I loved her in my way. I tried to help her. She was beyond help. I’m old. I’ve got myself to think about. I can’t spend my time grieving over the inevitable. It was inevitable! I told her she was headin’ for big trouble. Marry Bob, I told her. Go away from here. Start a new life. But no, she was too bewitched. She was in love! That man cast a spell over her—shouldn’t wonder if he was the one who broke her neck last night—”

We were standing in the front hall. The plaster-and-timber walls were spread with soft gray shadows, the bare polished oak floor gleaming where a ray of sunlight touched it. An ancient, uneven staircase led up to the first story, and a lovely old tapestry hung on the wall over the landing, jade green and maroon and black and indigo, all faded. I took in these details without really being aware of it, startled by what Augusta had just told me.

“I thought—she was engaged to Bob Hamilton,” I said.

“She was. They were in love. They were going to be married. Then she met the other man—wouldn’t tell me his name, wouldn’t tell me anything about him, just said it was over between her and Bob, that she knew at last what love was all about. He cast a spell over her—that was plain enough. He gave her drugs, and when she was hooked, when she was helpless, he threw her aside, laughed at her—”

Augusta’s expression was savage, but there was a tremor in her voice. She was an indomitable old girl, much too proud to give way to her grief in front of an audience, but I knew that that grief was as powerful, as painful as it would have been to anyone else, perhaps even more so because she refused to give vent to it. Cynthia’s death had been a great blow. Only a magnificent strength of character kept her from falling apart. I wanted to put my arms around her, to speak comforting words, but I knew that it would have been a disastrous mistake even to attempt such a thing.

“Bob knew about it, of course,” she continued. “He intended to do something about it. He intended to save the girl in spite of herself. He knew who the man was, knew what he was. He intended to expose the fiend—” Augusta broke off, clamping her lips together, scowling darkly. “He tried. He was murdered for his pains. It was an accident, they said. There was no motive! Ha! There was a motive all right, the strongest possible motive—” Again she paused, staring down at the floor. “I should have gone to the police. I know that. She begged me not to, she pleaded with me to keep quiet. She still loved him, you see, in spite of what he had done to her. Still thought he might take her back. I kept quiet, because of that girl, because I didn’t want to cause her any more pain. I was wrong. I’m paying for it, dearly. She might not be dead now if I’d—” The words seemed to catch in her throat and she was unable to complete the sentence.

“You’ll have to tell them now, Augusta,” I said gently. “Surely you realize that.”

“’Course I do!” she barked. “You don’t have to tell me where my responsibility lies! Cynthia’s gone. Maybe I can help keep some other young girl from falling prey to the same evil. I’ll talk, all right, but not to any brash, pushy young whippersnapper still wet behind the ears like the one who came over this mornin’. I gave him what for, and no mistake! Looked vicious, that one—those eyebrows! Probably had a pair of brass knuckles in his hip pocket. Scotland Yard! Ha! Likely story. I called the top man, Constable Clark, said I had a statement to make, said he’d better hightail it over here if he wanted to hear it. He’s supposed to be here at one, and he’s bringing a stenographer with him.”

Augusta pulled her brightly hued shawl closer about her and toyed with the fringe. “My nephew and his wife are arriving this afternoon, too. They were informed last night. They’ll stay here, of course. It’s only proper. Can’t have ’em waiting around in some hotel. My nephew will drink, it’s all he knows how to do, but that wife of his will make my life a constant hell. Hysterical woman, reminds me of a Pekinese. Probably was one in a previous life. If she’s not mincing around and sniffing disdainfully, she’s having hysterics. Never liked the woman, not by half—”

“I—I’d love to stay and talk, Augusta,” I interrupted, “but I must fetch Becky. Is she in the back room? I intend to take her to visit her aunt, you see, and—”

“Becky? She left almost two hours ago.”

“But—”

“We played a couple of quick games of cards, but I couldn’t concentrate. Besides, the little rascal was cheating outrageously and I was losing every hand. I sent her on about her business. I wanted to phone the police anyway. She—what’s wrong? You’re as white as a sheet—”

“She hasn’t been home. I have to find her. She may be in—”

I cut myself short. Through sheer willpower, I forced myself to calm down. There’s positively no need to panic, I told myself. She’s wandered off somewhere. She’s in no danger. I took my leave of Augusta. I went back outside. I asked the man in the brown windbreaker if he’d seen Becky. He said she’d come out of the house quite some time ago, had skipped down the walk and out the gate. He assumed she’d gone home. I thanked him. I went back to the house, forcing back the panic, willing myself to remain calm. She had probably come home while I was taking my bath and, finding no one about, decided to go off on one of her jaunts. Perhaps Keith had seen her, or Liz. Neither had. Alarmed by my anxious expression, Keith said she was probably prowling around the university and volunteered to go look for her at once. I shook my head. I couldn’t think coherently. My alarm was growing by the minute.

“She’s always wandering off,” Keith said. “There’s no need to worry, Janie. She’s bound to be all right.”

“I—I know. It’s just—”

The phone rang. I answered it in the hall.

The voice was soft, silken, obviously disguised by a handkerchief held over the mouth of the phone. The words, however, were perfectly clear.

“I have the little girl. I want the briefcase. You’ll bring it to me. Tonight. I’ll phone again at eight o’clock sharp. I’ll give you instructions then. You’ll do as I say. If you want to see the little girl again, you’ll do exactly as I say.”