Heathersleigh Homecoming (28 page)

 50 
Narrowing Circle

You say the same name turned up crossing the border at Schaffhausen into Germany?”

“Yes, and also north of Innsbruck coming either from Austria or Italy.”

“It appeared twice—the same name?”

“Reinhardt.”

“Germany . . . that makes no sense. Why would she be going to Germany? And was there any sign of—”

“There was no trace of the Oswald name.”

“I don't understand.”

“They both returned a week later, crossing the same borders again back into Switzerland and Austria. Undoubtedly some connection to the sister in Milan. But I'm afraid there is no hint whatever of the other young woman.”

“So what good does the information do us?”

“We have managed to trace the movements of the one south to Milan, the other to Interlaken in central Switzerland.”

“
Interlaken
, of course! That is where the Bern trail must have been going before, and what the sister started to say.”

“But there is no indication the Englishwoman is still there.”

“It is all we have.”

“Interlaken is an odd place for a nest of spies.”

“They hide wherever they can.”

“Then it seems the circle has just narrowed considerably. I believe we are getting close. It is time to concentrate our efforts in the region of Interlaken, and find this Reinhardt woman once and for all.”

 51 
Significant New Book

The sisters of the chalet had completed the Scotsman's sequel just before Christmas, but they had only now resumed their reading nights. According to one sister's expressed wish from several months earlier,
Robinson Crusoe
was now chosen, though they did not gather in front of the fire until somewhat later in the evening than was their custom.

“Whose turn is it to read?” asked Sister Marjolaine as the unofficial moderator of reading nights on the rare occasions when any exercise of leadership was required.

“I have not read for ages and ages,” answered Sister Gretchen, “and to be perfectly honest, I am in the mood to do so.”

“Then you shall read to us of the adventures of young Crusoe,” Marjolaine said. “But first we must know the background of the book. Does anyone know about it?”

She glanced around, but her question met only silence.

“I shall tell you this much, then,” she went on, “—it was written by Daniel Defoe, an Englishman, in the year 1719.
Robinson Crusoe
was Defoe's first novel, but he had been writing political pamphlets for twenty years before that, some of which got him into so much trouble that he was actually imprisoned for a time for his views. Do you know the style in which
Robinson Crusoe
was written?”

“In first person narrative, isn't it?” replied Agatha.

“Yes, it is, like many works of fiction of that period. It is a technique employed by many novelists, the Scotsman among them, and Dickens and many others. But rarely are such stories actually autobiographical, and neither is
Robinson Crusoe
. To our knowledge, Mr. Defoe himself was never lost at sea.”

“Why are so many stories told that way?” Regina asked.

“You must remember that fiction in the early 1700s was still a relatively new genre, except of course for theater plays. Novelists
were just beginning to learn their craft, and at first the public was somewhat skeptical of the new form.”

“I didn't know that,” said Sister Hope.

“Casting stories in the first person,” added Marjolaine, “in the guise of true-life adventures, made them easier for the public to accept. Jane Austen, you may remember, employed this method in the early 1800s, and was—”

A sudden shriek from Kasmira brought the discussion to an instant end. Every head turned toward her and saw that she was staring at the window in terror.

“There is . . . someone is there,” she said trembling, “—looking in at us, from outside . . . I saw two huge eyes.”

The others looked around, some faces now displaying a little trepidation of their own. The night was cold and black outside, and they could not imagine who might be spying on them through the window.

“Is anyone feeling brave?” asked Agatha. “Speaking for myself, I plan to remain right where I am!”

“I'm sure it is nothing,” said Gretchen, setting down the book and marching toward the window. “I will settle this mystery once and for—”

She did not finish the sentence. All at once her voice broke into laughter.

“Sister Galiana,” she said, “I think it may be you who are wanted. It seems one of your children is having a fit of sleepwalking.”

Galiana jumped up and ran to the window, pressing her face against the pane. Hearing Gretchen's laugh immediately alleviated their worry, and all the others were after her in a flash and now crowded about the window.

“Kasmira did indeed see two large eyes,” said Gretchen, “but of the bovine variety, not the human.”

“Toni, how did you get out!” Galiana exclaimed. “Don't you know that cows freeze in the snow?”

Already she was bound for the door. “I just hope no one else is loose.”

Twenty minutes later, still laughing over the incident and with Toni safely back in the barn and all its doors secure, everyone gradually resumed their seats in front of the fire.

“Well, Sister Gretchen,” said Marjolaine when they were all seated again after the exciting misadventure of the curious calf, “it is already late, but what do you say—shall we at least get a beginning made?”

“Let us indeed!”

Sister Gretchen opened the old volume that had come from the Buchmann library and began to read aloud.

I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, named Kreutznaer, who settled first at Hull. He got a good estate by merchandise, and leaving off his trade, lived afterwards at York; from whence he had married my mother, whose relations were named Robinson, a very good family in that country, and after whom I was so called, that is to say, Robinson Kreutznaer; but, by the usual corruption of words in England, we are now called—nay, we call ourselves, and write our name—Crusoe; and so my companions always called me.

I had two elder brothers, one of whom was lieutenant-colonel, to an English regiment of foot in Flanders, formerly commanded by the famous Colonel Lockhart, and was killed at the battle near Dunkirk against the Spaniards. What became of my second brother, I never knew, any more than my father and mother did know what was become of me.

Being the third son of the family, and not bred to any trade, my head began to be filled very early with rambling thoughts. . . .

The very words reminded Amanda of her own visions of London and activity and getting away from Heathersleigh.

“It is not much,” said Sister Gretchen, closing the book, “but we have at least made a beginning, and we can get much further next time.”

It was late, and the yawns all around the room indicated clearly enough that the evening was over. Gradually they all rose and made their way upstairs.

As Amanda closed the door to her room, an undefined grumpiness crept over her. She had been feeling it all evening. The instant Sister Gretchen had begun reading from that book she had grown unsettled.

Where had such feelings come from?

Things could not be more perfect here, she told herself. Yet for some reason she could not account for, she was feeling irritable and testy. Little things about some of the sisters were starting to annoy her.

 52 
Ramsay Sinks

The words had grown hostile, the voices raised.

“I don't care what you say—”

“I tell you, we're going to do it my way!” interrupted the other.

Suddenly a gun appeared.

But Ramsay had by now become accustomed enough to his tall, gravelly voiced counterpart since their first meeting on the Luzern bridge that he was no longer intimidated. He had also quit leaving his gun in his hotel.

Ramsay stared back at the weapon, not exactly smiling but neither trembling in his boots. An inner conviction told him, despite the warnings he had been given, that the man did not possess courage to pull the trigger.

By a small succession of bad choices over a lifetime, Ramsay Halifax had slid lower and lower down the slope of character. And now a moment of climax in that progression had come.

Virtue cannot be attained in a moment. Sin, however, can be turned from in a single instant of decision. The road to virtue may be a long one, but it must begin with a single step. Even now it was not too late for God's grace to reach down and pull Ramsay up. But the downward trend of sin could only be stopped by his own choice.

That crossroads of truth had come. It was a crisis, not of life or death, but of the will.

Would he reverse the slide of his character toward the hell such people have unknowingly made their destination? Or would he hasten all the more his eventual fall into it?

For the briefest moment Ramsay seemed to hesitate. His eyes flinched, almost as if some corner of his being apprehended that an eternal choice lay before him. Was he having second thoughts about Amanda? Did he care more about her than he realized? Had he grown concerned for what might be her ultimate fate in this messy affair?

If so, such thoughts flitted through his brain in but half a second and were gone. The moment was all that mattered.

Then just as quickly the decision was made and the die cast. On this day he would not reverse the slide.

Ramsay ripped the Luger from his vest pocket and in the same motion did what he correctly assumed the other would not. An explosion deafened his ears. Before the tall man could recover his astonishment at the unexpected turn of events, he slumped dead to the ground.

Almost in shock at what he had done, Ramsay's arm dropped to his side. For several long seconds he stood staring forward, smoking pistol hanging limp in his hand.

A moment or two more the silence lasted.

Suddenly a voice sounded in the night behind him.

“So, Mr. Halifax,” he said, “you have more guts than I would have expected.”

Ramsay spun around, nearly frightened out of his skin. Standing some ten feet away, face barely illuminated by the tiny flickering light of the end of a cigarette, stood the short, balding man he had seen staring at him on the Kapellbrücke in Luzern.

“You!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“I have been watching you all along, Mr. Halifax.”

“But . . . but—who are you?”

“My name is Scarlino,” replied the man.

“But what about . . .” began Ramsay in sudden confusion.

An evil chuckle sounded at the end of the cigarette. “One of my operatives,” replied the man. “I keep myself out of sight unless absolutely necessary. Now I suggest you put that gun away and come with me before the police arrive. You have passed your test. We now have more important things to do.”

In a daze, Ramsay complied, casting but one glance down at the body of his erstwhile colleague as they stepped over it and then disappeared together in the night.