Stranger by the Lake (18 page)

Lady Arabella's bonfire had caused a great loss to the world, and it was exciting to think that some of the papers had escaped the flames. I had been unreceptive to the idea before, not at all impressed by Craig's evidence or my aunt's enthusiasm. It had seemed too improbable that the manuscripts might still be in existence, but things seemed different now. If there were not a strong possibility that the manuscripts existed, the plot would be pointless. No one would take such risks without a near certainty of reward. Staring at the portrait of Sir Robert Gordon, I began to feel some of that excitement Aunt Agatha had displayed when she spoke of the papers. It was almost like a fever, spurring me on to search and discover. The pioneer miners must have felt this way when they went panning for gold.

I knew, then, that I was going to spend the rest of the day searching for the Gordon manuscripts. Aunt Agatha had mentioned the attics. I would start there. I felt foolishly excited at the prospect, and, too, the search would help take my mind off other things. I could really do nothing until I heard from Peter. Perhaps the information he provided would give me some kind of direction.

I was still holding the sheaf of long yellow paper in my hand. Taking it over to the desk, I sat down in the modern swivel chair and started to read. The pages were tightly packed with firm handwriting, several words and sentences crossed out, many blots where the black ink had splattered. I read casually at first, turning the pages with little interest, but gradually the vivid scenes captured my complete attention. This chapter described Gordon's mission to Dahomey, the forbidden West African kingdom where human sacrifice and cannibalism were rampant. Craig described the courtyard littered with bones, poles topped with human skulls, the bloody rites of these treacherous savages. Finishing the last page, I pushed the chapter away, shaken by what I had just read. Craig Stanton was an accomplished writer, a master of graphic prose carefully documented. I had no doubts whatsoever that the book would be a raging best seller.

“You look upset,” he said. “Was it that bad?”

I jumped out of the chair, startled. He was lounging in the doorway, watching me with a wry smile on his lips. I had no idea how long he might have been there, spying on me. I felt a blush starting to burn my cheeks. Craig Stanton chuckled.

“You looked so absorbed, I hated to disturb you. You actually cringed once. You must have been reading the passage about——”

“Aunt Agatha asked me to bring the chapter down,” I said hastily, interrupting him. “I—I thought I'd read a few pages.”

“I'm flattered. What do you think of it?”

“It's awful,” I replied.

“Oh? Remind me to keep the rest of the manuscript away from you. I don't know if my ego can stand such frank evaluation.”

“I didn't mean it that way. It—it's brilliantly written. It's just so—vivid. All those details—were they really necessary?”

“Certainly,” he replied. “Gordon believed the Foreign Office wanted to get rid of him and assumed that was why he was sent to Dahomey. I had to show the blood and bones in order to justify his suspicions to my readers. Fortunately, he got along famously with King Akhosu Gelele and was able to leave with his head still on his shoulders, foiling his rivals at the Foreign Office and adding another episode to his legend.”

Craig strolled over to the desk, carrying two reams of paper and a box of pencils he had obviously purchased in town. He was still wearing tennis shoes and the loose sweat shirt, although he had changed into khaki pants. We stood facing each other, the desk between us. Craig smiled at me, his eyes filled with amusement.

“You look terrified,” he said.

“What—what makes you say that?” I asked, trying to control the tremor in my voice.

“Your expression, luv. You look like a tiny bird paralyzed by a cobra. Tell me, am I really that offensive?”

“You're imagining things,” I replied, tossing my head and pretending to be totally unconcerned. I was supposed to play it cool. I was supposed to be the intrepid girl detective, undaunted, and yet he had sensed my attitude at once. I would have to try and repair the damage.

“It—it's just the chapter,” I said. “I really was shaken by it. I don't know when I've read anything so—totally real. I was impressed. I had no idea you were such a wonderful writer.”

“That's more like it,” he replied. “Maybe I'll let you read the rest of the manuscript after all. I may even let you help me with the chapters that deal with romance. There's a good love story there, Lady Arabella so prim and proper yet so devoted to her lord and master. I'm not sure I can do as good a job with the sentiment as I've done with the savagery.”

“I'm sure you'll do an excellent job.”

“Ah, now you're really after my heart.”

“Hardly that,” I retorted.

I mustn't overdo it, I realized. I couldn't do a sudden about-face. I couldn't be too friendly, too responsive. That would surely arouse his suspicions as much as my fear had just a few minutes ago. I walked over to one of the shelves and pretended to examine the titles. I could feel him watching me. His very presence seemed to permeate the air, leaving an indelible impression as real as smell and yet just as intangible. I had never known anyone with such a forceful personality, nor had I known anyone who caused me to react in such a strange way.

“You've got some explaining to do,” he said in a stern voice.

“Oh?” I continued to examine the book titles.

“This morning. Why did you go off like that?”

“To have my shoes repaired. I thought I mentioned that.”

“Is that the only reason you went into town?”

“Why should I answer these——”

“Is that the only reason?” he asked sharply.

“Of course.”

“Then why was it so important that you leave immediately? I told you I had to go to the stationer's to pick up some items. Why couldn't you wait and go with me?”

“I don't know if your ego can stand such frank evaluation.”

“Don't get smart, Susan.”

“I didn't want to go into town with you, Mr. Stanton. I don't want to have anything to do with you. I made myself quite clear last night.”

“You made yourself clear, all right,” he replied, “but not by anything you said. You didn't want me to leave your room last night, Susan. That was the only thing you made clear.”

“I take back what I said earlier. Your ego could stand anything. It's incapable of——”

“Christ!” he muttered. “You're impossible!”

I was pleased with myself. I had convinced him that I had left in the Bentley merely because I had wanted to avoid him. My performance had been almost as good as the one I had given for Stephen Kirk.

Stepping over to the window, I looked outside, one hand holding back the long green velvet draperies. The sunshine was weaker now, and the sky was turning gray, clouds forming. It looked like we were going to have one of those abrupt changes of weather. It might storm before nightfall. When I turned around, Craig was standing in the middle of the room, looking at me with a bewildered expression.

“What's bothering you?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing is bothering me.”

“You're quite sure of that?”

“Of course I am.”

“You're acting strangely.”

“Because I don't hurl myself into your arms?” I said acidly.

“It's not that. There's something else. I can sense it.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“Last night at the lake, when I first came up to you, I had the impression you were trying to hide something from me, and then you acted so enigmatically this morning. I have the feeling something's going on.”

“What could possibly be going on?” I inquired.

“I don't know,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

He moved closer to me, knees dipping foward a little as he walked. He was incredibly appealing in his khakis and sweat shirt, exuding an animal vitality, but I was immune to his magic now. He stopped a few feet away, folding his arms across his chest. I felt the same icy calm I had felt at the inn.

“What are you hiding from me, Susan?” he asked.

“Nothing at all.”

“I wish I could be sure of that.”

“I suppose you'll just have to take my word for it.”

“I suppose I will—for now. I've got work to do. I don't have time to get to the bottom of this now, but I will. I can assure you of that. If you're meeting some man——”

“Is
that
what you think? You think I'm—oh, how absurd. How gloriously absurd!”

I couldn't restrain my laughter. It pealed merrily, but it wasn't an expression of mirth, it was the laughter of relief. He thought I was meeting a man! He had failed in his attempts to woo me and his strong male ego couldn't stand the thought that someone else may have succeeded. I laughed, and he glared at me angrily and finally went back over to the desk, turning his back to me and straightening the books and papers with furious energy. I stood in front of the window, feeling quite superior.

“I don't know what you plan to do for the rest of the afternoon,” he said irritably, glancing over his shoulder, “but I suggest you find a good book and stay in your room. I'm going to be immersed in revising this chapter, and I won't have time to look after you. Don't go wandering off by yourself. I won't be there to get you out if you——”

“Oh, don't worry about me, Mr. Stanton,” I said in honeyed tones. “I'm quite capable of looking after myself.”

“I strongly doubt that!” he snapped.

I gave another short laugh and left the library, a smile on my lips. I felt strangely elated. I had won the first round hands down, and he had proved himself a very vulnerable opponent. Craig Stanton was a clever man, but he was not as clever as he thought. Not quite. Sooner or later he would give himself away, and when he did I would be there, waiting. I climbed the stairs, flushed with my success. It was not going to be so difficult after all, I thought, and what I had said to Craig was undoubtedly true. I was quite capable of looking after myself.

CHAPTER NINE

The stairs across the hall from my bedroom were dark and narrow, one flight leading down to the kitchen area, another- leading up to the attics. They had once been bright golden oak, but the wood had darkened with age and the varnish had started to peel. Hesitating only a second, I started up, putting all thoughts of Craig Stanton out of my mind and thinking now only of the Gordon papers which I might be fortunate enough to discover. It was not very likely, I admitted, but as I moved up the stairs I felt that curious fever I had felt earlier, a combination of excitement and expectation. The stairs were steep, and there was little light, but surely I wouldn't need an oil lamp in broad daylight.

The door at the top of the stairs creaked on rusty hinges as I pushed it open, stepping into a small, narrow room with low beamed ceiling, empty of everything but dust and cobwebs. Dust stirred as I crossed to a doorway and stepped down three shallow steps leading to a second room, as narrow as the first, cluttered with ancient furniture and old lampshades and piles of yellowing magazines. The room didn't look very promising, so I passed on through another doorway, down five steps, and walked down a hallway barely four feet wide, one wall solid, the other with tiny windows set high up under the eaves. Beams of weak sunlight slanted down, swirling with motes of dust.

I remembered the attics only vaguely from my first visit. Aunt Agatha had brought me up here to hunt for an old China doll she wanted to give me. The doll had had a beautiful painted face and painted black hair and had worn a red muslin dress and tiny gold slippers. I still had it, a treasured keepsake. It had taken us some time to find it, and we had gone through several of the attic rooms before eventually locating it, covered with dust, tucked in the corner of a shelf. I had been amazed then at the number of rooms up here, at various levels, connected by narrow halls and wooden steps leading up and down from level to level. There were twelve rooms, some large, filled with fascinating relics, others mere cubbyholes.

Leaving the narrow hall, I stepped into a large, dusty room with ceiling high in the center and sloping down sharply on one side in conformity to the roof. Three small windows permitted the weak sunlight to filter in, pale rays shimmering with dust motes affording just enough light to permit me to search. The room was an antique dealer's dream. Old tables and chairs were piled high in one corner, and there were cupboards and cribs and teakwood boxes, all layered with dust. I saw an old spinning wheel, a dressmaker's dummy with the stuffing coming out, a big chandelier dumped on the floor, crystal pendants yellow from neglect. Cleaned and repaired, most of these items would bring an impressive price in some chic shop. I began to search and was immediately lost to the world of the past.

One of the cupboards contained old clothes, limp, worn, smelling of camphor and moth crystals. I examined a white lace dress trimmed with velvet rosebuds and black ribbons, an elegant ballgown that must have caused sighs of admiration at some party over a hundred years ago, and there was a dark green velvet traveling suit trimmed with brown fur, a purple silk tea gown, a brown and green plaid skirt, and a white blouse with leg-of-mutton sleeves. Lady Arabella must have worn these garments, I thought, looking at the plump dressmaker's dummy that must have been used to fit them. I could visualize some prim, underpaid seamstress working diligently to finish the ballgown while her employer entertained friends downstairs in the big drawing room.

A small teakwood box held a withered rose and a dance program, Robert Gordon's name in violet ink after each dance listed. The rose disintegrated into dust as I lifted it to take out the stack of letters neatly tied with a faded blue ribbon. They were love letters, written by Arabella Radcliff to Lieutenant Gordon, the stiff, yellowed pages covered with the same violet ink as on the dance card. I sat on a footstool beneath one of the windows, reading the letters, handling them very carefully. They were frightfully intimate, hardly the sort of letters a prim Victorian maiden should have written to a proper suitor. I could sense the passion and impatience of the young Arabella, stifled by the society she lived in and eager to join her lover in a life of adventure.