Locked Rooms (32 page)

An odd coincidence, I conceded; and with that word, I was suddenly aware that I was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

My feet were at the edge of the dock, and I stepped onto the worn boards, listening to the stretch and creak of the wood giving under my weight. At the end, I sat down with my boots dangling off the end. The water was still and watchful beneath the marginally lighter sky.

Three dreams. One to drag me by the scruff of my neck up to the events of April 1906, when books flew, objects smashed, the sky burned. The second to bring me face-to-face with an ambivalent figure who had come into the tent in the days following the fire: a man with no features, who simultaneously terrified and reassured me, come looking for my father. And a third to repeat, over and over, the message that I needed only to open the door to find the hidden rooms, that I knew they were there, and had only to stretch out my hand for the latch.

And yes, they died, my family, servants, friend. But my family died eight years after the city burned and half a day’s journey south of the place where the faceless man had come into the tent. They died in a snatched moment of leisure before the end of an era, days before my father would go into uniform and my mother would travel east. It might well have been our very last time on that road.

More irony than coincidence, that one.

I shivered in the cold; the air was so still, the lake seemed to be holding its breath; the brief hair on my scalp prickled and rose.

I’d never been as phobic about coincidences as Holmes was—for a man who professed to disbelieve in divine intervention, he was ever willing to follow the tracks laid out for him by Fate. But as I sat on the dock, balancing on the point formed by three intersecting images welling out of my unconscious mind, something else came up and stared me full in the face.

I’d been shot at.

In England, I had enemies; Holmes had enemies; I’d have put an assault down to one of them. But here? Two days after we’d arrived?

Finally, with the sensation of a key’s wards sliding into place and an almost audible click, the hard barrier fell away, and I took a step into the hidden rooms of my past.

Where all around me, the walls, the furnishings, the very air shouted at me—

Was it an accident? Or was my family in fact murdered?

Chapter Twenty

A
ccident, or murder?

With that simple question, the world shifted dizzily on its axis. My father’s peculiar will, the deaths of the Longs and Dr Ginzberg, the attempt to assassinate me on the street—all those came together with a clap in my mind. Not that I could see anything resembling a cause, but I had worked with Holmes long enough to see the pattern of a knot forming in the disparate strings around me. Too many deaths, too many coincidences.

Something had happened, Long had said, during the fire of 1906; something that took Micah Long away from his own family during the frantic hours when Chinatown burned, something that changed the relationship between our fathers, an event that may have driven my mother back to England for six years.

An event that, two years after our return, sent their motorcar off a cliff.

And that within four months had extinguished the lives of three individuals in whom various Russells might have confided.

And which, ten years afterwards, caused someone to lower a gun on the only surviving Russell.

The Russell who was currently sitting in a completely exposed position as the sun climbed towards the surrounding hills, with her only weapon buried at the bottom of her valise.

The stupid Russell who hadn’t thought to look behind her since giving a token glance to the street outside the St Francis on Sunday morning.

I scrambled to my feet and scurried towards the house as if I’d heard a twig break in the woods. Inside, I locked the terrace door, then went rigid, waiting for a careless motion or uncontrolled breath to betray an intruder. The house was silent, and the only dampness on the stones of the floor was from my own feet. I slipped up the stairs of the bedroom wing and cautiously nudged open my own door, but the room was empty.

I felt slightly more secure with the pistol resting in my trouser-band. I stuffed my possessions into their bags any which way, then went upstairs to bang on the door of Flo’s room.

No response: I had my fingers around the knob when I heard a befuddled whimper from within. “Flo, we need to go as soon as we can. I’ll get the coffee ready, but you need to wake up now.”

Donny’s head had already emerged from the door behind me.

“Something up?” he asked.

“I think I should be back in the city right away. I’m making coffee.”

I had just taken the percolator from the heat when Donny appeared, dressed, combed, and shaved.

“Can you take a cup to Flo?” I asked. “I don’t know if she’ll come out of her coma without it.”

He looked at me oddly, but did not say anything, just carried the two cups away. Eventually Flo joined us, picking at the toast I laid before her and drowning her sleepiness in caffeine.

When her eyes were somewhat clearer, she fixed them on me. “What’s the rush?” she demanded. “I thought we were going to have a nice swim before we go?”

“I just need to be back in the city,” I said, the flatness of my tone brooking no argument.

Flo blinked, and Donny cleared his throat. “Well, then, if you girls want to pack up your things, I’ll put the umbrella and chairs back into the boat-house.”

“Never mind them, the Gordimers will take care of everything.”

I stood up. Flo and Donny, after exchanging a glance, did the same. Without waiting to see if they did as I asked, I picked up the key-ring from its hook and walked out of the front door.

The dirt drive to the road had only the Lodge and, up at the road itself, the Gordimers’ house. I went to the back door and knocked, knowing at this time of day they would be in the kitchen. Mr Gordimer opened it, dropping his sweat-stained hat over his head as he did so; the odour of home-cured bacon and fried eggs washed over me, making me smile involuntarily as I held out the keys.

“We’re off this morning. Thank you for watching over everything so carefully.”

He took the keys from me and passed them over his shoulder to the figure behind him. I greeted his wife, whose stern face softened as she said, “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to chat, Mary. I hope everything was satisfactory?”

“Absolutely perfect.”

Gordimer gave a sort of rumbling sound preparatory to speech, then came out with, “You’ll be selling up?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I’ll most likely sell the place in the city, it’s ridiculous to keep it standing empty, but if you two are willing to go on with the upkeep here I’ll hang on to it for a while longer.”

“Of course we’re happy to keep it tidy and safe for you,” Mrs Gordimer said, “for as long as you like. And if you want to have your lawyer drop us a line again to say you’re coming, we’ll put the milk in the ice-box, like always.”

“I appreciate it, Mrs Gordimer. And any of the bigger maintenance jobs that come along, I trust Mr Norbert’s good at approving them.”

“Oh, yes, there’s never been a problem. Last year when the roof started leaking—no, I’m a liar, it was two years ago now—all I had to do was drop a line and suggest it was a job too big for Willy here on his own and Mr Norbert wrote right back to say we should hire whoever we liked and send him the bills. Willy wanted to do it, of course, but we hired the son-in-law of Mr Jacko—remember him, at the post office? His daughter Melinda married a nice hard-working boy from San Mateo and though of course they live over there, the boy was happy to bring his crew here for a few days and do the job. With Willy to supervise, of course.”

Willy—Wilson, his name was, and the diminutive did not suit him—looked slightly abashed that he had not mounted the assault on the roof by himself, but I was glad his wife had put her veto on his active participation. I nodded my appreciation and made to ease myself back from the door, lest I be caught in the snare of Mrs Gordimer’s words for the entire morning.

“Well,” I said, “it’s lovely to see you two looking so well, and I’m sorry I can’t stay longer. My friends decided that they have to get back, so we’ll be off.”

“That is a pity, but I do understand, young people today are so busy. You just leave everything there, I’ll pop in later and tidy it all away.”

“That’s very good of you, Mrs Gordimer. Perhaps I’ll manage to get down again before I leave.” I threw this last down as a sop to distract her, although it was a blatant lie. I had no intention of coming again, not for years. Maybe not ever.

Mrs Gordimer’s continued barrage plucked at me, but slowly I moved back, further and further from her range.

However, it was Gordimer himself who stopped me. With another rumble, he summoned the following words: “Had some people here, asking questions.”

My feet, halfway down the steps, stopped feeling their way backward. “People?”

“Man and a woman. Few weeks ago.”

Mrs Gordimer’s head inserted itself between us, staring at her husband in outrage. “There were people here and I didn’t see them?”

“Day you left for your sister’s. I was working on the boat-shed door, after dinner one night. Nearly dark. They came around the house, bold as brass. I sent them off.”

“Can you tell me about them? Did you get their names?”

“Nah. Just told ’em to leave.”

“What did they look like?”

“Didn’t see him close, he stood off down the lawn with his back to me, like he was too good to do any talking. Had grey hair. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe forty, taller’n him. Old-fashioned hair—up on her head, you know?”

Like mine, until three months ago. “What colour was it?”

“Brown, I think. She had a hat,” he added, which I assumed was meant to explain his lack of certainty as to colour.

“And you think you saw her somewhere before?”

“Dunno. Maybe just her picture.”

“Anything else you noticed about them? Beard, eye colour, jewellery, that sort of thing?”

Gordimer took off his hat and scratched his balding pate in thought. “He’d a moustache, saw it when he turned just a little to say something over his shoulder. Never liked moustaches, myself,” he added, a surprising digression for a man so chary of words and opinion. “Wore a sparkly ring, diamond, like, on his pinkie. ’Bout my height. Wanted to be taller—wore those shoes with the soles. Foolishness.” My, my: Mr Gordimer really hadn’t cared for his visitors. “The woman. About as tall as you, not quite so skinny. Brown eyes. Pretty voice. Southerner. Not him.”

I reared back. “A Southerner? You’re certain?”

He shrugged. “That drawl. Magnolias and juleps. Iron underneath.”

I continued to gape at him, not only flabbergasted by the news, but by the simple fact of my neighbour speaking so many words. I scarcely noticed the addition of this third perceptive judgement until later.

However, the effort appeared to have drained him. I pressed for more detail, but he had given me all he had, or all he could manage to convey, because his words were replaced by shrugs and hand gestures, and a look of panic crept into his eyes. In the end, I took pity, and thanked him. He looked vastly relieved.

There was one other question, however, and for that I looked to his wife. “What day would this have been?”

The words that had been stemmed by her husband’s unnatural loquacity burst forth as Mrs Gordimer provided me with the saga of her sister’s debilitating illness in an unspecified part of the anatomy, with more details than I thought entirely necessary, but the essential detail of the day managed to creep in as well: March the thirtieth.

I thanked her, thanked him, and continued my backward retreat until I was safely out of the garden gate and the crunch of drive-way gravel was under my boots.

We drove away from the lake-house on Wednesday a different trio from that which had arrived on Sunday. Then, my apprehension had been so great, my two companions could only tread quietly around me; now, I was so eager, even anxious, to be back in the city I paid almost no attention to my surroundings; Flo sat in the front seat with her shoulders set in an attitude of pure disgruntlement, with Donny beside her at the wheel, silent and puzzled.

As we started up the drive, I swung around for a last look at the Lodge. I did not know if I would see it again, but I was grateful for the days here. Grateful, too, that my companions had proved so easy to get along with, other than Flo’s occasional spasms of overly solicitous behaviour, pressing on me toast and sleeping draughts. When the last corner of mossy shingles was swallowed by the trees, I faced front again.

We passed through the bucolic little village and wound through the hills towards the sea. The original plan had been that our return would cross the hills to the faster road that ran up the eastern side of the Peninsula, but before we could turn in that direction, I leant forward and put my hand on Donny’s shoulder. He tipped his head to listen.

“I know it’s rather out of the way, but I’d very much like to stop at that garage we passed on Sunday.”

“Which one is that?”

“In the little town, Serra Beach.”

“Oh, right,” he said dubiously. “I’d thought to go back by way of Redwood City—along the Bay. Serra Beach would mean the coastal road again.”

“Would you mind awfully?” I asked, piling on the helpless female tones, then put in the knife. “It’s the very last place we spoke, my parents and I, before the accident.”

He exchanged a quick glance with Flo in the seat beside him, then faced forward again. “No problem,” he said over his shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”

“Very good of you,” I said, and settled back in my seat, too occupied with my thoughts to see much of the passing scenery.

The accident site appeared up ahead of us, looming above the sandy beach where we had talked with the insurance investigator. The beach was sunny today, but deserted, with neither bread van nor closed touring car parked on the side of the road. When we got to the top of the hill, I scarcely glanced at the place where it had happened; my mind was taken up with the coming garage.

Donny pulled up to the petrol pump and all three of us got out of the motor. The boy who came out to help us was too young to remember much about the events of 1914, far too young to have built up the garage on his own. I asked him if the owner was there.