Stranger by the Lake (5 page)

I had gone several paces before the cold, clammy air engulfed me. The walls on either side were dark, and I was moving down a long black passage swathed in dense shadows. I stopped, startled, and the fetid air swirled around me, stroking my bare arms like ghostly fingers. There was a horrible sour odor, an odor of mildew and dust and decay, and I realized that I had turned into the east wing. My heart began to beat rapidly, and my throat went dry, just after I had been complimenting myself on my strong set of nerves. My first impulse was to turn and run, but something held me there. Perhaps it was my own chilling fear.

I had the undeniable impression that I was not alone in this dark corridor. I could feel someone watching me, and the feeling was as strong and unnerving as it would have been had someone reached out to touch me. A pair of eyes stared at me from somewhere down the hall. The sensation was too strong, too real to be my imagination. I peered into the gloom, trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness, but there was nothing but shadow, rippling black shadow that seemed to stir in the air, caressing the walls with sable darkness. At the very end of the hall, far away, heavy draperies were drawn over windows, and they billowed, making a raspy, rustling sound like the sound of hoarse whispers. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I could see the recessed doorways on either side, and then I saw the dark form in one of the doorways halfway down the corridor, an immobile black shape outlined by the lighter darkness around it.

“Who's there?” I called.

There was no reply, just the heavy silence emphasized by the rustle of the drapes. Minutes passed, each second punctuated by the beating of my heart, and I was paralyzed, unable to move away from the evil that I felt like a living substance around me. I stared at the dark form hovering there in the doorway, my eyes straining to see distinct details, and then everything blurred together and I heard a loud click followed by a soft creaking sound that echoed along the walls. The dark form had vanished. It was no longer in the doorway. Shadows blurred and blended and there was only the fetid air, the sharp, sour odor. I was alone in the deserted corridor, left with only my own fear.

That, too, vanished, and I felt incredibly foolish as reason returned and I realized how preposterous the fear had been in the first place. I had reacted in precisely the same way the heroine of one of my books would have reacted. Had someone glided down the hall, pausing at the door of my room and then turning into the east wing, and then waited there in the doorway? I doubted it now. The dark form had been merely a mass of shadows, and the click, the creaking had been perfectly normal noises. I tried to convince myself that someone hadn't opened the door and gone into one of the rooms. There was one sure way of finding out. I could march down the hall, open the door and look inside. I wasn't about to. Not that I was
afraid
, I told myself. The idea simply didn't
appeal
to me.

Leaving the east wing, I returned to the other hall and hurried down it, turning left and going down the wide main hall, relieved to see sunlight spilling through the west windows and dappling the garnet carpet with flecks of gold. I paused at the head of the stairs, smoothing the skirt of my green linen dress and brushing a curl away from my temple. Aunt Agatha would be waiting for me, and I wanted to be composed. I took a deep breath, ridding myself of the last traces of uneasiness, and then moved down the stairs, a bit too briskly to be really dignified. I told myself that it was merely my eagerness to see Aunt Agatha that made me move so quickly.

CHAPTER THREE

I was rather surprised to find the drawing room empty. Aunt Agatha hadn't come in yet, which gave me further time to compose myself and examine the beautifully appointed room. Victorian in style, with ornate furniture, it was nevertheless light and airy, done in shades of brown, beige, yellow, and golden wheat color. A pair of French windows stood open, leading out onto the terrace, and sunlight came pouring through in shimmering rays that brought out golden tones in the waxed parquet floor and touched the edge of a brown, orange, and beige Persian carpet. A portrait of Lady Arabella Gordon hung over the white marble fireplace.

I studied the painting. Done in the florid, overly dramatic style of the period, it showed a plump, rather self-satisfied matron posed against a backdrop of rocky gray hills with yellow flowers growing in the crevices. She wore a flowing white dress with a bold green sash, and held a green parasol over her shoulder. Dark ebony hair was pulled away from the oval face in a severe bun, and the features were patrician, the eyes dark brown, the mouth quite smug. Certainly not a beautiful woman, I thought, but a strong one. I could easily imagine her trouping through the deserts and giving the Arab bearers hell.

There was a noisy patter on the terrace outside, and I gave a little cry of alarm as a great silver-gray creature came bounding in through the French windows. He stopped, staring at me with startled yellow-brown eyes, evidently as surprised as I was. He was a magnificent animal, his body lean and sleek, his short fur like glossy velvet, and he looked bewildered at finding me here, not knowing whether to growl or whine with pleasure.

“Friends?” I said, my voice a bit shaky. “You're a lovely thing, you are, but do you
bite
?”

The animal lunged toward me, placing two padded paws on my shoulders and giving me a great slurpy kiss with a long pink tongue. I almost lost my balance.

“Easy, fellow!” I protested. “Let's not carry this friendship thing too far!”

“He
likes
you,” Aunt Agatha exclaimed, striding briskly into the room from the terrace. “Great clumsy beast, isn't he? Down, Earl!- Sit! You see, he has a frightfully affectionate temperament, completely unlike his brother. Prince is another matter altogether. Surly as can be, and quite disrespectful—not on the
carpet
, Earl. On the hearth. There, that's a love.”

Earl curled up on the marble hearth, head resting on his front paws, and his eyes devoured me with excessive affection. I felt sure he was going to pounce over for another kiss at any moment.

“My dear Susan!” Aunt Agatha cried, throwing her arms wide to embrace me. “This is outrageous! You weren't supposed to get here till next week and everything's disastrously disordered. We don't even have electricity! Can you imagine?” She gave me a vigorous hug and then held me back at arm's length to examine me. “Nevertheless, I'm elated. Simply elated! It's such fun having you here.”

Aunt Agatha was tall and large-boned, a big woman with the red-blooded vitality of a female athlete. Her short-clipped hair was sandy, liberally streaked with gray, and her long face was undeniably plain, weatherworn, lined with age, yet her large blue eyes were radiantly clear and sparkled with youthful enthusiasm. She wore sensible brown shoes and a pinkish-brown tweed suit, the skirt several inches below the knees. She was a striking figure, exuding strength and character that would have made beauty superfluous.

“Sorry I didn't meet you when you came in,” she said, her voice rich and hearty, “but Althea was having one of her spells this morning and I had to scold her out of it. She keeps
imagining
things—I'm quite worried. Of course we have had a lot of excitement recently, but I'm afraid she's going off the deep end——” She shook her head, a crease between her brows.

“I'm eager to meet Althea,” I said.

“You will, dear. She's divine, actually, though hardly a day passes that we don't go at it like a couple of cats. But then our quarrels are so
stim
ulating. Poor thing's been a bit under the weather lately what with all that's been going on. Susan, dear, do sit down. Don't hover!”

Aunt Agatha sprawled out on the Victorian sofa, crossing her legs and resting her elbow on the arm, her long body completely relaxed. I sat in one of the yellow chairs, and Earl padded over to lay his heavy head in my lap, his eyes looking up at me with slavish devotion. I scratched his ears, still a little perturbed by this sudden outpouring of affection.

“Tell me, dear,” Aunt Agatha said. “Did you have a nice journey down?”

“The train ride was uneventful,” I replied, “though I had a dandy time at the inn last night.”

“You spent the night at the inn?”

I nodded. “There was no one to meet me,” I said, “and it was pouring rain. The room was quite pleasant, but the innkeeper——”

“Charlie Grayson's tetched,” she interrupted. “Poor thing's always been a bit
slow
, though he's a fine, responsible lad, quite capable of running the inn. He's an amiable sort—though distracted! What happened?”

I related my experiences at the inn, telling her about Charlie's curious attitude, the mysterious conversation I had overheard, and the message someone had slipped under my door. Aunt Agatha laughed uproariously, shaking her head.

“You blundered into the middle of one of our famous illicit affairs,” she said. “They're rampant in Gordonville. You see, we get very poor reception on the telly, dear. What else is one to
do
? Gordonville's a veritable—what's that place in America? There was a book about it, I believe, and a television series——”

“Peyton Place?”

“Gordonville's a veritable Peyton Place, though you wouldn't guess it on first sight. So quaint and serene on the surface, but
sub rosa
——”

“What about the note?” I protested. “Surely that——”

“Oh, I have no doubt Charlie slipped the note under your door, afraid you'd talk about what you'd overheard and give the inn a bad name. He tries to run a respectable inn, though I must say
his
conduct hasn't always been blameless. Involved in a rather delicious scandal himself, he was, a few months ago——”

Her eyes danced with glee as she told me about Charlie's affair with a young actress who had come down from London to stay at the inn. According to Aunt Agatha, the girl had been stunning, a rather mysterious figure in Gordonville. No one knew who she was or why she had come, but Charlie had been fascinated by her. She had her bit of fun, leading him on, no doubt finding it amusing to toy with the affections of a boy much younger and obviously smitten.

“Shameless hussy!” my aunt exclaimed. “Probably couldn't pay for her room. People were outraged, I don't mind telling you. Charlie may be a bit peculiar, but he
is
a strikingly handsome lad, quite virile. Several local girls would like nothing better than to snare him. He's dependable, and he owns the inn, and there's plenty who'd consider themselves lucky to marry his likes. Good husband material isn't all that common in these parts.”

“What happened to the actress?” I inquired.

“No one knows. She just—vanished, I guess you might say. No one saw her leave town. She just suddenly wasn't there. Some say Charlie strangled her in a fit of anger and buried her in the basement of the inn. Nonsense, of course! People love to imagine such horrors, love to talk about 'em even more.”

“Strange,” I said quietly, thinking about the tormented expression I had seen in Charlie's handsome brown eyes.

“Speaking of horrors, dear, your last book——”

“You didn't like it?”

“I adored it! But those last few chapters—chilling! So wonderfully scary. When the girl was trapped in the ruins and the murderer was prowling the moors—absolutely unnerving. I didn't sleep a wink after I finished it. Is the new one scary, too?”

“Very,” I said.

“Be sure you send me a copy when it comes out. I read so much, over a dozen books a week. Now that I no longer gad about there's nothing else to do. Incidentally, dear, how's your mother?” she asked, changing the subject abruptly. “I want to hear all about her. She's so wrapped up in that rich Australian of hers that she never writes. It's been ages since I've even received a
post
card! Fancy your mother catching a banker. At
her
age, I might add. But then she always was a captivating creature, even as a girl. I remember how she used to fascinate all the boys——”

Having asked me to tell her all about my mother, she proceeded to tell
me
all about my mother, relating a whole series of splendidly funny anecdotes about the days when they had both been daughters of a country parson, wildly unconventional lasses eager to leave the parsonage and kick up their heels in the city. No one could talk like Aunt Agatha, and I sat back in my chair, smiling at her phrases and relishing her bawdy humor. She was quite earthy in a hearty, rollicking way that was sheer delight.

“What do you think of
him
, dear?” she asked. I saw that I was going to have to get used to these sudden changes of subject.

“Who?” I asked, not very convincingly I must add.

“Craig Stanton, idiot. Don't tell me you didn't
notice
?”

“I noticed, all right,” I said.

“You couldn't help but, what? If I were thirty years younger I'd give him a run for his money, and that's no joke! As is, I find it enchanting to have him about. Such charm, and such manners! Fancy a man who looks like that being a scholar. I could easily imagine him stamping through the Amazon jungles on some dangerous expedition or stealing diamond bracelets from dissolute countesses on the French Riviera, for that matter, but he's actually quite dedicated to his work. Frightfully intelligent chap, and very respected in academic circles.”

“Aunt Agatha, who
is
he? I must say I was startled to find him here, and all this talk about the Gordon papers——”

“He told you about that? I was rather hoping to save it for later on, as a surprise. I'm so excited about it! And you can help us search! But in answer to your question: Craig Stanton is thirty-three years old and a graduate of Oxford. Graduated with several honors, as a matter of fact. He wrote a book about the Koh-i-noor diamond and the intrigue surrounding it—a colorful, exotic book, full of strange lore and bloody deeds, absolutely fascinating. You must read it, dear. I have a copy upstairs.”