Authors: Elizabeth Peters
“Fair enough,” Jacqueline said. She leaned back and crossed her legs, lowering the purse to the floor. “Why don’t you start by sitting down? I don’t like being loomed over by tall men.”
Craig did as she asked, cocking an eye toward the purse. “Are you recording this?”
“One up for you,” Jacqueline said with a smile. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Do you?”
“Be my guest.”
Craig switched on his recorder. “Like yourself, Mrs. Kirby, I don’t feel any need for reinforcements. In fact, my father has washed his hands of this whole affair. He feels… He has said… Let me think how to put it.…”
“Never mind, I think I understand,” Jacqueline said. “One can hardly blame him. So you’re handling Mr. Darcy’s affairs now?”
“I am representing him in this aspect of the case,” Craig said cautiously.
“How is he holding up?”
“Oh, God, don’t ask!” Strong emotion overcame Craig’s formal manners. “One minute he insists his sister has been dead for seven years; the next minute he says maybe it could have been Kathleen, how would he know? He’s barricaded himself in the house and won’t even answer the phone. But he wants to talk to you.”
“Everybody wants to talk to me,” Jacqueline said, thinking of the sheaf of messages in her purse. “What’s the situation with Mrs. Darcy?”
“She doesn’t know anything about this. Heaven help us all if she finds out! The old lady hasn’t been right in the head for years, and-if she hears this latest story…”
He shuddered visibly.
“She won’t hear anything from me,” Jacqueline said. “But you know, sooner or later she’s bound to find out. The best thing we can do is settle this question as quickly as possible.”
“I know, I know. But it isn’t going to be settled quickly. The autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon; but I’m not sure whether it can solve the question of identity. Kathleen never had her fingerprints taken. The dentist she went to retired some years ago, and I’ve no idea what happened to his records; the police are trying to locate him. To the best of my knowledge, she had no birthmarks or other distinctive physical characteristics; she had never broken a bone or had an operation.”
“But,” said Jacqueline in her most innocent voice, “you wouldn’t know, would you, about such things as birthmarks, scars, and the like? The only people who would know are those who were intimately acquainted with her. Her mother, her lover…”
“I was neither of the above,” Craig said flatly.
“What about her sisters?”
“I don’t know.” Craig gestured helplessly. “I haven’t spoken with either of them. This has been a hellish day, and I haven’t had time to do everything. Booton Stokes called me this morning. He wants—”
“Don’t tell me, I know. He wants to talk to me. Does he have any of Kathleen’s literary papers?”
Craig looked surprised at the change of subject, but answered readily. “Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“Her sister said she had been writing for years, but the papers in those boxes you had related only to
Naked in the Ice.
”
“So maybe she destroyed her old manuscripts. Writers do that, don’t they?”
“Sometimes. What else did Stokes want?”
“He was worried about the publicity angle.”
“I think we can keep it quiet, for a few days at least.” Jacqueline gave him an expurgated version of her arrangement with MacDonnell.
“Great,” Craig exclaimed. “That’s great, Jacqueline. Maybe the thing will die down.”
Not the way you hope, though, Jacqueline thought. She lifted her purse onto her lap and made sure he saw her turn off her tape recorder. “Off the record,” she said. “What do you think happened to Kathleen seven years ago?”
“You haven’t got two of them in there, have you?” She shook her head. Craig shook his, not in denial but in weary confusion. “Jacqueline, I don’t know. A few weeks ago I wouldn’t have had any doubt but that she was dead. Even after I got the letter… You don’t look surprised. How did you know about it?”
“You weren’t the only one to hear from someone calling herself Kathleen. Did you happen to notice the postmark?”
“Of course. There were a number of such communications after Kathleen disappeared. I anticipated that there would be a recurrence of them. I kept them, of course; one never knows when one may need to prove harassment or something more serious. This one was sent from New York City.”
“I’d like to borrow that letter… Ron. And any others that might be described as lunatic fringe.” He hesitated and Jacqueline turned it on full power—fluttering lashes, sweet simper, cooing voice. “You couldn’t call them privileged communications, now could you? I have a reason for asking, Ron. I want to compare them to certain other letters.”
“Did you get a letter too?”
“I got several letters,” Jacqueline said. “I was—and am—convinced that they were written by Kathleen Darcy.”
They parted on amicable terms, so much so that Craig again asked her to dine with him. He didn’t make the mistake of mentioning a secluded little restaurant, and Jacqueline promptly accepted. “Why don’t you meet me at the inn, and then we can decide where to go?” she added. “There are things we need to discuss in private.”
She made her escape before Craig could recover from his astonishment, and without specifying a date. “I’m not sure yet—if not tonight, then tomorrow night. May I let you know?”
Craig assured her she could.
I don’t think I can get things arranged by this evening, she thought, frowning, as she drove rather too fast out of town. It’s rather like sheepherding. The stupid creatures keep wandering off into the jungle. Only some of them aren’t sheep, but wolves in sheep’s clothing.
The gates of Gondal were closed and barred. Not a bad chapter opening, Jacqueline thought, as she came to a stop in front of the barrier. The book, the book—the sequel to
Naked
—her longed-for prize, her hoped-for achievement… What was going to happen to it? At this point in time, its chances of completion were looking very dim.
I won’t think about that now, she told herself. I probably won’t think about it tomorrow, either. Oh, hell. How am I going to get in? I have to get in. I need that letter, if he’s found it, and any others he may have received; I don’t absolutely have to talk to Sherri, but I’d like to get that little matter out of the way so I can concentrate on more important issues; and I have to check Kathleen’s books. Too much to do, too little time… She got out of the car and rattled the gates. She yelled. Neither action produced a response. After a moment’s consideration, Jacqueline pulled her car closer to the gate, climbed onto the hood, and tossed her purse over the fence. It landed with a thud and a distressing tinkle. Something had broken. She hoped it was the flashlight, not something messy like the bottle of iodine. Not without difficulty, she followed the purse, tearing a triangular hole in the knee of her pants and getting rust all over her hands.
When she picked herself up, she was considerably disconcerted to discover that she had an audience. Marybee was eating an apple. She spit out a collection of seeds and remarked, “You tore your pants.”
“I noticed,” Jacqueline said.
“There’s a great big hole in the fence, back there.” Marybee gestured with the apple. “You could’ve come through that way.”
“I could’ve, if I’d known about it,” Jacqueline said, knowing full well that sarcasm was wasted on this juvenile sadist, but unable to control herself. “Why didn’t you mention it while I was hoisting my… while I was trying to climb?”
“You looked pretty funny,” Marybee said, grinning.
“Hmmm. I’m so happy to have made your day. Why aren’t you in school?”
“Ma came and got me, at noon. She wouldn’t tell me why.” Marybee took another bite. “I guess it was on account of the murder.”
“Were the kids talking about it?”
“Yeah, some of ’em. Josh Hunter—his dad is a deputy—he said it was Aunt Kathleen.” Marybee began gnawing on the core, a sight Jacqueline found repellent in the extreme. In fact, she was beginning to find Marybee repellent, which was not fair to the child. Why should she demonstrate any sensibility about an aunt she could not remember?
She started off along the driveway. Marybee trotted beside her. “Did you bring cookies this time?”
“No.” There were a few in her purse, actually, but she was in no mood to be accommodating.
“Was it Aunt Kathleen?”
Jacqueline stopped. The face turned up to hers was untroubled, but its very resemblance to the face familiar from so many photographs struck her uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” she said, resisting the impulse to seek refuge in an easy lie. “Do you care?”
“Not really,” Marybee said. “But Ma had been crying, and I figure that was why. At least I don’t know of any other reason why she should be crying. I guess she’d care, wouldn’t she?”
“I guess she would.” Jacqueline dug around in her purse. “Here. I forgot I had them. They’re a little squashed.”
“That’s okay.” Marybee took the crumpled packet. “Thanks.”
“Why don’t you go tell your mother I’ll be along to see her in a while?”
“I’d rather stick around here,” said Marybee through a mouthful of crumbs.
“I’d rather you didn’t. Show me that handy hole in the fence.”
“Okay.” Relishing her role as guide, Marybee led the way.
The hole was child-rather than adult-sized, but with Marybee’s enthusiastic assistance Jacqueline managed to enlarge it.
“Very nice,” she said, studying the result approvingly. “Off you go now.”
“But I don’t want to—”
“Go home. Scram. Beat it. It just could be,” Jacqueline said, “that if your mom has been crying she might appreciate some company.”
Marybee considered the suggestion. “You mean like, just kind of hanging around helping her and talking? About… about nothing special?”
“Like, exactly.”
“You could at least say thank you.”
“What for?”
“For showing you the hole in the fence.”
Jacqueline grinned. “Thank you for showing me the hole in the fence.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Marybee nodded with a graciousness worthy of the Queen Mother herself.
After she had gone Jacqueline headed toward the house. It looked abandoned. The shades were drawn, as in a house of death. Jacqueline thought she saw one shade move, as if someone was peering cautiously out; but she did not go to the door. She followed the brick path around toward the back, pausing once to look up. If a stone had fallen from the wall, it had been replaced. Seven years—it would have been, of course.
Before she entered the cottage she stood in the doorway and looked at the floor. Had the dust been disturbed since she had last been here? Impossible to be certain; she had left marks of her own, not distinct footprints, only scuffmarks. A pity she couldn’t play detective with her magnifying glass; that was what had shattered when her purse fell.
She went to Kathleen’s library. The book she wanted was there; it took only a few seconds to verify her hunch. She had been right (of course). The corroboration meant nothing by itself, but the odd little facts were beginning to add up. She put the book in her purse, and began scanning the shelves. Fiction was in the last section, nearest the window. In this as in all other areas of literature Kathleen’s tastes had been eclectic. A few mysteries—the classics, Sayers and Queen and Christie—several historical novels, including the ones Jacqueline herself considered the best. And, like a rhinestone among gems, one of dear Brunnhilde’s books. Jacqueline didn’t have to look inside the cover—though she did—to know that Kathleen had never bought this book. As the effusive inscription proved, it had been sent by the author to “a writer I much admire.” How damned condescending of Brunnhilde. And, adding effrontery to insult, the book was Brunnhilde’s half-witted imitation,
Priestess of the Ice God.
One would think that even Brunnhilde would have better taste.
Jacqueline managed to cram the book into her purse. Sucking a cut finger, she reminded herself she must clean it after she got home, and empty out the broken pieces of the magnifying glass.
Dusty sunlight lay golden across the floor of the office. Jacqueline paused in the doorway. This might be her last visit to Kathleen’s cottage. Whatever happened in the next twenty-four hours—whether her wild surmise was proved, or provable—there was reason to suspect she would not come here again.
So like her own pleasant office, and yet so horribly different. Her eyes went slowly over the stained walls, the worn floorboards, the cold hearth. In her office there were built-in bookshelves flanking the fireplace; Jan’s bookshop had cupboards in the same location. Here, instead of being recessed, the walls were flush with the front of the fireplace. It was odd that Kathleen hadn’t opened that space and used it for books. The bookshelves in her library were full, with double layers of books on some shelves. And what about her reference books, the ones she used frequently? Did she have to walk into the next room to consult them?
“ ‘If I were a carpenter,’ ” Jacqueline crooned, “ ‘Or a carpenter’s horse…’ ”
She put her purse down on the floor and crossed to the fireplace. The walls next to the fireplace weren’t plastered, or plasterboard. They were made of wood—boards nailed into position, probably against studs. Why wall off empty space?
She began banging on the planks. Definitely hollow. The posters had been stapled to the wall. Some hung in tatters, the paper rotted by damp and time. Others had been mounted on heavy cardboard. Though faded almost beyond identification, they had not deteriorated. Someone had taken pains to select a material that would be resistant to weathering, and yet that same someone had not framed the posters, or covered them with glass. Could it be… It could. She had to get the screwdriver out of her purse and pry out the nails that held the posters to the wall before she could remove them. The second poster she took down—it might have been a view of Neuschwanstein, Ludwig of Bavaria’s fairy-tale castle—concealed the opening, though even that might not have been apparent had she not been looking for it; it was only a pair of parallel lines across the wooden planks. They had been sealed shut with glue, she had to use the screwdriver again.