Stranger by the Lake (6 page)

“I will,” I said. “And?”

“And he went to India to do research, and while he was there he became interested in Sir Robert Gordon. Gordon was a lieutenant in the dragoons, you know, in his youth before he started his explorations. He was an aide to Sir Charles Napier, that crusty old commander. Gordon was the only man in India who could speak all the dialects, and he could also pass himself off as a native. He was invaluable to Napier, acting as a sort of secret service agent, living with the natives, finding out things no other white man could hope to learn——”

“You're wandering,” I said.

“Be patient, Susan! It was while he was in India that Gordon conducted his famous experiment with apes. He knew all the
other
languages, and to pass the time he decided to learn ape-talk too. He had several apes living in his quarters, and he actually recorded over eighty distinct sounds. If he could have continued with it, I'm sure he would ultimately have learned to communicate, but of course the infamous brothel report put an end to his career in India. Napier wanted to know all about the notorious houses full of painted men his officers were said to visit. Gordon's report was a little too clinical. He was just being thorough, of course, but guilt by association—all that sort of thing. His fellow officers were jealous of him and used the report to drum him out of the service. Just as well. He went on to do much more exciting things——”

“Marvelous,” I said. “I've learned all about Sir Robert Gordon's early career, but absolutely nothing about Craig Stanton.”

“It's all relevant, dear,” Aunt Agatha said a bit testily. “You see, Craig learned all this while he was in India and decided that his next book would be about Gordon. Naturally, he came to Gordonwood. He'd already done reams of preliminary research, but of course he couldn't write the book he
wanted
to write without access to the family documents. I gave him my permission, although I did have my doubts about it. Why dig up all those old Victorian scandals? Why let a perfect stranger prowl through the trunks and boxes and read all those intimate letters and journals? It had never been done before. My husband's ancestors refused to let anyone see the material, and even my husband, may he rest in peace, refused to grant permission to any would-be biographers.”

“Then why did you?” I inquired.

“I thought, what the hell? So many books have been written about Gordon, why not let someone write the
real
story? And I must say Craig was very persuasive.”

“So he moved in.”

“Not at first, dear. He stayed at the inn and came out every day, but I thought that was terribly impractical. Why spend all that money to rent a room at the inn when Gordonwood had so many rooms? I asked him to come, and I must say I haven't regretted it. It's been divine to have a man around again, and I don't know when I've had so much fun.”

“I see,” I said, rather primly.

“You don't approve?”

“It's not my place to approve or disapprove either one.”

Aunt Agatha narrowed her eyes and gave me a wicked little smile. “So,” she said, “you two have already had differences?”

“Hardly that,” I retorted. “He just seems terribly cheeky, and——”

“Wonderful!” she cried. “The chemistry's already beginning to work! You two were made for each other. You both write, and you have so much in common.
He's
a marvelous catch, and he couldn't do better than you, even if you
are
my niece. What fun! He's ripe for the right woman, and——”

“Nonsense!” I said.

“——and,” she continued, “you aren't getting any younger, dear. Being a writer, being independent is all very well and good, but a woman needs a man, and this one's perfect. Grab him!”

“I'm not the least bit interested in Mr. Craig Stanton,” I told her in a cool reserved voice. “Simply because a man has a magnificent build and sexy blue eyes doesn't mean I'm going to lose my head. You may find him irresistible, but I can assure you my own reactions——”

“Fiddlesticks!” she exclaimed, interrupting me. “You modern girls are so clever in so many ways. You make your own careers, support yourselves, take karate lessons, and learn to fly airplanes, but when it comes to the fundamentals you're sadly lacking.
I
knew how to get my man—once I laid eyes on him he didn't have a chance—and look at your
mother!
She snapped up a banker and shipped off to Australia when she was old enough to take up knitting and forget the whole thing.”

“There are more important things in life,” I retorted.

She smiled, fiddling with the string of pearls around her neck. She was a lusty, indomitable old girl with marvelous traits, but she could sometimes be quite irritating. She went right to the heart of the matter, stripping away all pretense and nonessentials, and I had the impression she knew more about my emotional makeup then I knew myself. It was an infuriating feeling, and I frowned, rubbing Earl's head vigorously. He looked up at me with such soulful eyes that I had to laugh.

“How much did Craig tell you about the Gordon papers?” she asked.

“He told me about the diary entry,” I replied, “and the loose pages he found in an old trunk. He said Sir Hubert Ashcrofton came down to examine them and verified their authenticity. Do you really believe the manuscripts exist, Aunt Agatha?”

She nodded briskly. “I'm certain of it. They're here—somewhere in the house.”

“I find it hard to believe,” I said. “Such things just don't happen in real life. If the manuscripts did exist, surely they'd have been discovered years ago. It's—it's too incredible to think they'd still be here after all this time.”

“Humph! I suppose you would have said the same thing if you had been at Malahide Castle fifty years ago.
That
was pretty incredible, too, and the Boswell papers were much older than the Gordon manuscripts would be.”

I had to agree with her there. The discovery of the Boswell papers had been one of the most amazing and romantic episodes in the history of literature. Malahide Castle was in Ireland, a rambling old place with battlements and turrets and even a moat. It had been crammed full of letters and journals that James Boswell had written during the eighteenth century. They had turned up, over a hundred and fifty years later, in garrets and attics, in cupboards and ancient chests, in an old box that was supposed to contain a croquet set. As late as 1940, when the government was looking for a place to store food during wartime, two chests of valuable papers had been discovered in an outhouse at Malahide. It was a remarkable story, undeniably true. The papers were still being sorted out and published by Yale University.

“Still,” I protested, “Lady Arabella burned all her husband's unpublished papers, and if one or two of the manuscripts
did
escape the flames, I could hardly believe they'd still be here——”

Aunt Agatha sighed heavily, giving me an exasperated look. She clearly enjoyed believing in the manuscripts, and I could easily see why. She was old, and alone most of the time, and this had undoubtedly brought a great deal of excitement into her life. She had always been given to enthusiasms: raising snails, gardening, collecting books on Victorian crimes, studying ancient Egyptian mystic cults. This was merely another enthusiasm, and she must have great fun looking through old boxes and prowling in the attic for such unusual plunder.

“I'm not the
only
one who believes in the manuscripts,” she said, almost as though she had been reading my mind. “After the story came out in the papers, I was besieged by people who wanted to come to Gordonwood and hunt. A couple of chaps even tried to break into the house.”

“Mr. Stanton told me about that,” I said. “I find it rather alarming. If they did exist, the manuscripts would be more valuable than a cache of precious gems. That could easily attract the criminal element——”

“Bosh!” she cried. “You've been writing far too many thrillers. These chaps were perfectly harmless. But there's no need to worry about that sort of thing now that we've got the dogs. They'll keep out any unwelcome visitors. Still,” she reflected, “I'm glad we've got a big strong man about the place. Makes one sleep easier.”

I couldn't help but think of my experience in the east wing. It still bothered me, even though I knew deep down that it had been nothing more than a combination of nerves and over-active imagination. Suppose someone else, someone outside Gordonwood, was as interested in the manuscripts as my aunt? Suppose they were determined to find them on their own and had, somehow or other, managed to slip into the house? What if … I shook myself mentally, refusing to give way to my novelist's imagination. There was no sinister stranger lurking among the shadows at Gordonwood, and there were probably no manuscripts either, though my aunt enjoyed thinking there might be.

Sunshine streamed into the room in long yellow rays, and I could see a clump of daffodils and part of a dark green hedge through the windows. It was absurd to imagine anything amiss on such a glorious day. The room was cozy, faded and worn and full of character, and I was delighted to be with Aunt Agatha again. Most women her age were putting up strawberry preserves or knitting woolen sweaters, but my aunt was original. I could hardly visualize her doing anything domestic. She would read about horrendous crimes instead of dusting, collect enamel snuffboxes and grow exotic herbs instead of sweeping. That was part of her charm, part of what made me love her so dearly. Aunt Agatha might be madly impractical at times, but she was never dull, never commonplace.

“I'm a wretched hostess,” she said, getting to her feet and smoothing down her pinkish-brown tweed skirt. “Keeping you here all this time, talking like a garrulous old fool. It's almost noon, and you must be starved. Lunch is quite informal. Cook just puts sandwiches and tea on the table in the breakfast nook. Come along, dear. Not you, Earl! Out you go. Find Prince.”

Earl looked crestfallen, but he slumped outside, turning to give me a parting look of love. Aunt Agatha rattled her pearls and brushed a fluff of sandy hair from her forehead, linking her arm in mine and leading me out to the hall.

“Craig's book is going to be smashing,” she said as we moved down the hall. “He's finished several chapters already, and they're vastly readable, quite racy. I'm sure it'll be a best seller. I may be a selfish old woman, but I adore having him here. He's pure sterling.”

“I'm sure it's been jolly for you.”

“So grand having young people around—first him, now you. I hope you didn't take offense at my remarks, Susan dear. I'm an incurable matchmaker. I have this wild compulsion to pair people off, particularly when they're two such gorgeous people.” She threw back her head, laughing gleefully. “I'm sure I won't have to do any matchmaking in this case. Craig's bound to fall for you, and he's a very determined young man.”

“I can be very determined myself,” I replied, “particularly when it comes to preserving my——”

“Virtue?” she asked merrily.

“—my independence,” I said firmly.

“You're such a
stick
, Susan!” She scolded. “But that'll change. You're your mother's daughter and
my
niece. Blood is bound to tell!”

I laughed in spite of myself. It was impossible to be irritated with Aunt Agatha for long. Life itself was a miracle to her, and she celebrated it every day with vivacious zest. Her gaiety was infectious, and I felt myself loosening up, forgetting my qualms. She was chatting about her collection of cactus plants as we turned the corner and a woman stepped out into the hall from one of the back rooms, giving both of us a start.

“My God, Mildred!” Aunt Agatha cried. “Do you have to
creep
like that? Can't you make a little noise and let people know you're about?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” the woman sniffled.

“Don't whine, girl! I can't abide whining!”

I stared at the woman in fascination, not knowing whether to burst into laughter or draw back in horror. She was truly pathetic, almost comically so. She wore heavy white shoes, white cotton stockings, a rumpled white nurse's uniform, and a shapeless brown sweater pulled around her shoulders. Her face was round and jowly, a thick layer of pancake hiding blemishes, and her. brown eyes were mournful. Her mousy brown hair was worn in an untidy bun on the back of her neck, limp strands spilling out of place. She could have been twenty—or fifty-five.

“I've been looking all over for you,” Mildred said in her weak, nasal voice. “You know it's time to take your pill. Dr. Matthews says one pill before every meal and it's lunchtime now and——”

“Run along, Mildred,” Aunt Agatha said in haughty tones. “I have no intention of taking one of your bloody pills, and you can tell Dr. Matthews I said so! Out of my sight! Why I keep you on I'll never know——”

“But Lady Gordon——” she protested.

“Out, out!” my aunt cried, as though she were shooing away a bothersome child. Mildred shuffled on down the hall, casting mournful glances at us over her shoulder.

“What on earth——” I began.

“A creature as ugly as that should be chloroformed at birth!” my aunt said irritably. “God knows we can't all be attractive, but Mildred seems to glory in her drabness. I expect her to vanish into the woodwork any day now!”

“But she was wearing a nurse's uniform——”

“She's a nurse! It stands to reason she'd be wearing a uniform.”

“But what——”

“It's very simple, dear,” she said. “I was down with a rather bad spot of flu last month and had to stay in bed a week or so—nothing serious, I assure you. Paul insisted on sending that wretched creature over. She drove me up the wall, I don't mind telling you! Can you imagine being cooped up with someone like Mildred hovering over you? Sheer horror! I went hoarse shouting at her.”