CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BILLIE AND I were silent during the drive back to the house. It seemed ages had passed since Sean first knocked on the front door, but it was just now ten o’clock. So much had happened in such a short time. Betty was in the hospital now, under the care of a Doctor Martin. He had set her broken arm and given her sedatives and informed the police that it would be at least two days before she would be able to answer their questions. She hadn’t regained consciousness after speaking to me, and we had no way of knowing who was responsible for her disappearance and subsequent injuries. Doctor Martin assured us that, with the exception of her arm being in a cast, Betty would soon be back to normal. I doubted seriously that she would mind the cast. She would be the proper little heroine among her school chums. The cast would merely add an extra element of glamor to that role, and all the attention she had longed for would be hers in abundance.

Widow Murphy was at the hospital, too, sitting at her daughter’s bedside, where she would remain for the rest of the night. Neighbors had come to look after Sean, and there had been nothing left that Billie and I could do to help. Officer Stevens had not liked the idea of our going back to the house, but I had assured him that Doctor Clarkson would be there soon, if he wasn’t there already, waiting for us.

The police had questioned George Reed thoroughly. He was able to explain his actions quite logically. He had been walking back to his cottage, he claimed, and he had seen me alone on the beach. He had wanted to speak to me. He called my name. I ran. He came after me, but he did not “chase” me. I had to admit that I had run without knowing who was calling me, that he had called out several times identifying himself and that I hadn’t recognized the voice. The police weren’t entirely satisfied with Reed’s story, but they had no way of disproving it. He had been vague and evasive when they asked what he wanted to speak to me about, merely telling them that it was “a personal matter.” As we left the hospital I looked around for Reed, but he had evidently already gone back to his cottage. I wondered what that “personal matter” was.

The tires hummed over the road. The motor coughed and spluttered. The whole car shook as I turned down the poorly paved road that led through the dense wooded area and on to the house. The headlights glowed like two pale yellow spears through the mist that danced and swirled across the road. We circled out of the woods and could see the house ahead, a gaunt, forbidding relic towering out of the mist. Dr. Clarkson’s car was not out front. I had hoped he would be waiting for us. I drove Clive’s car into the garage and parked it. Neither Billie nor I said a word as we walked around the house and went inside. We had left an oil lamp burning in the front hall and its golden glow seemed to lick the dark walls and heighten the long shadows the ponderous furniture cast across the floor.

The house was silent and tomb-like. All the rest of it was shrouded in darkness, and it seemed to be waiting for us. The doors in the hall opened into dark, dusty rooms thronging with shadows, and the staircase spiraled up like a live thing arrested in some act of evil. It was easy to imagine whispering voices and stealthy footsteps. I could tell Billie felt the way I did. Her face was pale, and there were dark smudges under her eyes. Her lips were turned down slightly at the corners, but her chin was resolute. I sighed deeply.

“Doctor Clarkson should be here soon,” I said.

“I know. I wish I were very, very brave.”

“We have the gun. It’s here in my purse.”

“Small comfort,” she replied, striving for lightness. “This really is madness, you know, Em.”

“It’s almost over,” I assured her.

“Think so?”

I nodded. She rested her hands on her hips and shook her head.

“And to think I could have had a week in Majorca, posing for Punch. I suppose this is more interesting, but in the future I intend to do a lot of reading about murder and stay miles away from the real thing. You look ghastly, Em. I suggest a hot bath. Under the circumstances, a bath will suffice, un-hot though it must be.”

She smiled, a brave smile. Both of us wanted to get far away from the house, but neither of us were going to give way to nerves. Billie would be Billie, blithe though shaken, and I would manage somehow to maintain at least a surface calm.

“I’m going to light lots of lamps and candles,” Billie told me, “and while you’re bathing I’ll brew some tea. Doctor Clarkson will appreciate a cup when he gets here. That’ll be right away. I hope.”

The bath was not a comfortable one. The old green marble tub was large and roomy, and the soap and water were wonderful. I squeezed the sponge and let streams of water pour over my shoulders, and I experienced a peculiarly sensual satisfaction as I lathered my legs with soapy foam, but all the while I kept listening for sinister footsteps. I kept glancing at the doorknob to see that it did not turn. A single oil lamp, perched on the edge of the sink, cast flickering black shadows over the dark green walls, the light reflecting weirdly in all the tarnished brass fixtures. I kept remembering that particularly gruesome scene in Psycho, and it was with some relief that I stepped out of the tub and wrapped myself with a gigantic white towel.

I put on a white turtle neck sweater and a short brown skirt, lavishly pleated. I slid my feet into a pair of brown sandals and sat down in front of the mirror to brush my hair. I brushed it vigorously, bringing out the deep copper highlights, and I found it a very soothing, normal occupation. Everything will go well, I told myself. Everything will go as planned. Doctor Clarkson will come—he may be downstairs already—and nothing will go wrong, as long as I remain calm. I put down the brush and stared at myself in the mirror. The eyes seemed too large, too dark, and the skin seemed to be stretched too tightly over the cheekbones, but there were no signs of hysteria. I was beginning to feel better. Bathing, dressing, brushing my hair: these simple, ordinary actions helped reestablish my equilibrium and drive the nervous fancies away.

I took an oil lamp and walked out into the darkness of the upper hall. It was cold. The wind coming through the opened windows whisked along the walls with a whispering sound, and the curtains billowed and grew limp and billowed again. The old floor groaned as I walked over it, but I did not hesitate. I started down the staircase. Halfway down there was a large rubber tree plant in a black pot. I almost dropped the lamp when one of the dead leaves brushed against my cheek. Each step had its own peculiar sound, dull, shriek, creak, groan, and the noises echoed up in the well of silence. I ignored them all. No one was following me. No one was leaning over the railing above, watching me as I descended. I was rather pleased with my own calm as I stepped into the library.

Billie had lighted all the red glass lamps, and they glowed dimly from every part of the room, illuminating the walls of books, revealing the nest of shadows behind the overstuffed chair in one corner. Billie was curled up on the sofa a book in her lap, a curious expression on her face. A squat brown tea pot set on the table in front of her, fragrant steam curling from its spout, and there was a platter of small cakes beside it. Billie sat up and put the book aside as I came in. There was a tiny crease on her brow, and her eyes looked dark and puzzled. I could tell that something was bothering her.

“Doctor Clarkson hasn’t arrived yet?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she replied vaguely. “Em—”

“Yes?”

“This book—”

“What is it?”

“The diary. Her diary. I came up and got it while you were bathing. I’ve just read it.”

“Already?”

“It isn’t long. It’s—going to surprise you, Em.”

“Will it?”

She nodded slowly. “I—couldn’t believe it at first. Too improbable! And then I read on—and there’s no doubt.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see. Em, I know who did it.”

“Who?”

“She doesn’t call him by name, but it’s perfectly clear. Oh, there’s a letter too. Very puzzling. I was trying to figure it out when you came in.”

“A letter?”

“It was tucked between the pages of the book. It’s very old, yellowing. Here. See if you can make anything of it.”

She handed me the letter. It was creased and soiled, crumbling at the edges. I sat down in the large chair and studied the letter in the glow of one of the lamps. It was dated 1938 and came from Devon. The handwriting was large and scrawling, clearly that of an uneducated person, and the ink had faded to a dingy brown. I read it twice:

Mrs. Stern,

We’ll do just like you say, I’m sure, and no questions asked, but Herb and me are a bit worried if it’s exactly proper. We’re grateful to you, sure, as you’ve enabled us to experience a joy the Good Lord in his wisdom didn’t see fit for us to know. The money you sent is a blessing. Herb will be able to make the farm a real farm now.

But is it honest? Sure we’re grateful and understand your position and know why you want it this way and thank the Lord you didn’t choose the solution that a great many fine ladies choose if I’m to believe the things I hear and read in the papers.

But is it fair to all concerned?

I don’t intend to bother you any more, and the money was a blessing and you don’t have to send any more unless you feel like it. I want you to know Herb and I don’t intend to let on to anyone and you’re in no danger that way, but I can’t live a lie and I intend to be honest with those near and dear, already near and dear. That’s best. Wishing you luck.

Enda Hodges

Billie had poured tea for both of us. I put the letter aside and took my cup. I sipped the tea, thinking about what I had just read. There was something about it that struck a responsive cord inside me, something that furnished an answer to a question that had been worrying me for quite some time, but it was all vague and confused in my mind, swimming near the surface but remaining just out of reach. At the moment I couldn’t even think what it was the letter supplied an answer for.

“Does it mean anything to you?” Billie asked.

“I’m not sure. It seems to be telling me something. Something is ringing in the back of my mind, but I can’t say just what it is.”

“The woman keeps mentioning money. It would seem Henrietta had given the Hodges a lot of money—enough to re-finance a farm, anyway. From what you’ve told me about her, I wouldn’t imagine charity was one of Henrietta’s strong points.”

“It wasn’t. She was extremely tight.”

“Perhaps they had been blackmailing her. The woman says she didn’t intend to ‘bother’ her any more and that Henrietta didn’t ‘have’ to send more money.” Billie frowned, her head held a little to one side. “I believe the letter is important, or why would she have saved it? Why would it have been stuck between the pages of the book unless it had some connection?”

“I suppose I’d better read the dairy—”

Billie threw up her hand, cutting me off. She was very still, listening. I listened, too, and I thought I heard a faint rumbling noise, then a muffled bang. The noises were both very quiet, more a matter of vibration than actual sound. Billie’s face was pale, and I gripped the edge of the chair, waiting. I watched the ornate clock on the top of the mantel. The second hand moved slowly, jerkily. A minute passed, and it seemed more like ten. I watched the slender black hand traverse the face two more times and then heard Billie sigh. She stared at me with enormous eyes.

“Did I imagine that?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It sounded like a car.”

“I thought so, too. I thought it might be Doctor Clarkson coming, but he’d have already knocked on the door by now.”

“We’re both on edge,” I said. “It was probably nothing.”

“Probably,” she replied, clearly not convinced.

“Let me see the diary,” I said.

She handed me the limp red volume and began to prowl around the room, examining titles of books in the dim light, touching things, moving restlessly from place to place. She was eager to discuss something with me and couldn’t do it until I had studied the diary. I opened the book and began to read. The entries followed no orderly system. None of them were dated, and it was frequently difficult to tell if Henrietta were writing about the past or the present. Seeing that brisk, flamboyant handwriting disturbed me at first, for it was charged with the personality of the woman who had written it. It was almost as though Henrietta were talking to me. I could hear her crisp, cracking voice as I read.

The diary jumped and rambled. Henrietta wrote about her youth, about days long since gone, and she related insignificant bits of gossip concerning the people she saw day by day: the butcher, the mailman, the woman who came to collect alms for the needy. There was a humorous passage about her encounter with Betty, when she chased the child away from the window, and a full and rather salty account of her feud with Burt Reed. There were other entries, too, passages that caused me to feel first surprise and then a steadily mounting horror. I read without stopping.

I closed the book. I held it in my lap I sat very still. My eyes were dry, but they felt hot and seemed to sting. Billie watched me from across the room. She understood. She didn’t say anything. After a while I opened the book again to reread certain entries that seemed to leap out from the pages of trivia and gossip. The first came near the front of the book, after a description of our arrival and a series of complaints about the condition of the house:

He came today. Damn! Why must I be haunted? He won’t leave. He wants money. They all want money. I told him it was all gone. He laughed at me. I’ve done my part. I don’t want anything else to do with him. I don’t care what he does as long as he leaves me alone. People say blood is thicker than water. I say hogwash. I might be unnatural, but I wouldn’t care if he were dead. He’s not well. There is something about him that frightens me. He’s smooth on the surface, but underneath that I sense something dark and evil, evil.…

I flipped over pages that detailed her dislike of medicines and my own persistence in bringing her pills and tonics. This was followed by another brief entry:

I had a bad spat with Emmalynn this morning. I treated her abominably. I really am an old terror! I wanted to apologize to her, but my pride prevented me. I ordered those new novels she wanted, though, and had the man at the swank shop send out two cashmere sweaters. She’s my only comfort, my only luxury. I intend to make it up to her, though she doesn’t know it. He thinks he will get what’s left. He’s going to be surprised! I intend to keep an eagle eye on Emmalynn’s inheritance. I’m going to fix it so he won’t be able to touch it, no matter what he thinks he can prove in court.…

There was a long swirling line and a blot of ink at the bottom of the page, as though she’d had to put the book away hastily. Someone must have walked in. I read the next entry:

He threatened me today. He says he needs money desperately. He wants to get out of the country. He wants to make a new start. I told him everything was gone. He knows about my reserve. Somehow he found out about it. I didn’t think anyone knew, but he does, I’m sure. He must have seen them when I took them out of the drawer, that day I decided I needed a better hiding place. They were in my purse all day. He must have seen them.…

I reread the entry. So Doctor Clarkson had been wrong. The highly improbable was true after all. I was not really surprised. I had lived with Henrietta long enough to know that the improbable was precisely what to expect from her. I continued to read:

This morning Emmalynn went for a long walk. She thinks I don’t know why she’s so fond of fresh air. I have a pair of binoculars, and I’ve watched her talking to that man. He’s no good for her. I’d like to tell her so. Maybe I will. While she was gone he came up to my room. Scared the life out of me. I turned around and there he was, standing in the doorway, smiling with his eyes flat and hard and hating. We had quite a quarrel. He said he’d kill me. I said I’m just an old woman who can’t live very much longer anyway so go ahead, do it. He didn’t say anything for a long time. His face was like a mask, all flat, no expression, and then suddenly he laughed with his eyes still hating and said he knew how he’d make me do what he wanted. He’d kill Emmalynn. He meant it. He couldn’t kill me. It would be unnatural, and he’d never find what he’s after, but he would kill her. He’d do it to hurt me. I’ve got to get her away from here. I can’t tell her why. I can’t tell anyone. I must make her leave, before he can carry out his threat.…

I stared at the words, dancing blue swirls and loops that moved across the paper gaily. My eyes seemed to lose the ability to focus, and the words writhed and curled on the paper, ugly things, alive and evil. I waited for the sensation to pass and then turned to the last two entries:

She’s gone at last. I’ve finally gotten rid of her. The girl has the patience of Job. I’ve been impossible for the past week, pushing her further and further. I would rant and rave and she’d stay calm and give me a pill or simply walk out of the room. I finally succeeded this morning. We had a violent argument over her secret romance, which never was a secret to me. I told her she wasn’t to see him anymore. She went red in the face and said it was her life and she’d do what she wanted with it and I said oh no, not as long as she stayed in this house. She said she’d leave. I laughed and said she didn’t have the guts. She packed her bags and left. Oh God, it hurt. I don’t want her to hate me. I’m an old sinner, but I love that girl like she was my own.…

I know what he would like to do, but he hasn’t got the courage to do it. He’s weak, not at all like me. Last night I heard him prowling around the house, searching. He crept down the hall and opened the door to my room and I was awake but didn’t let on. He just stood there in the doorway, looking at me, and finally he went away and I heard him mumbling as he left. I’m not afraid of him. Now that Emmalynn’s gone and I know he can’t hurt her I have nothing to fear. He can lurk around, and he can threaten me all he likes, but I know he won’t touch me. He couldn’t. There are certain crimes that would be crimes against nature. So I’ll wait, and he’ll grow tired of his little game and go away. He must.…

I understood so much now, and my grief was greater. It would be a part of me for a long time to come, but I had no time to examine it now. Now, I had to put it aside and summon forth a steel-like calm to carry me through. I closed the book and put it on a table and stood up. The room was cold. I folded my arms across my breast and looked at Billie. She was standing by the black marble hearth, her face pale in the shadows.

“It hurt?” she said quietly.

“A lot,” I replied.

“The diary explains everything.”

I nodded.

“It was Gordon Stuart,” she said.

“No,” I said. “You’ve forgotten the letter.”

“But she said he—”

“Exactly. She said he. She never called him by name. She used a pronoun throughout the diary, although she readily identified everyone else. Don’t you think that’s curious?”

“I wondered.”

“It’s basic psychology,” I said. “She’d denied his existence for all these years, refused to give him a name. By using a pronoun instead of his name she was merely following a pattern she’d followed for years, refusing to recognize him.”

Billie frowned. She still didn’t understand.

“The letter,” I said. “There was a connection. A major one.”

I watched her face. It showed deep puzzlement, then surprise, then enlightenment. She looked at me with wide eyes, her lips parted, and then the eyes grew dark with fear.

“My God,” she whispered. “All this time—”

“I know. It chills the blood.”

“We’ve got to get out of here, Em.”

“We’re going to, just as soon as we get the jewels.”

“You know where they are?”

“Henrietta was quite clear about it.”

“I don’t see—”

“Think.”

“She said—yes, of course: ‘I intend to keep an eagle eye on Emmalynn’s inheritance—’”

“They’re bound to be there,” I said.

I took the gun out of my purse. The metal was icy cold to the touch. I wrapped my fingers around it tightly and held it at my side. Billie took up one of the lamps and we left the room, Billie close behind me, the lamp casting red-gold shadows on the walls. We stood at the bottom of the staircase for a moment, both hesitant, both afraid. Cold air drifted down in chilly currents that felt clammy on our cheeks and arms. I gripped the gun even tighter. Billie took a deep breath. We started up into the shifting, stirring shadows of the stairwell.