The Hellfire Club (52 page)

Nora was grateful that she had just taken a mouthful of the rabbit pie, for it gave her a moment’s grace. She would have to invent something. Lord Night was a caricature of Monty Chandler? Gingerbread was the model for the Cup Bearer’s hovel?

A gust of wind howled past the windows.

Sometime earlier, following Lily on the tour, she had sensed . . . had half-sensed . . . had been reminded of . . .

“We should visit the Song Pillars,” Marian said. “Can you imagine how they sound now?”

Lily shuddered.

A door opened in Nora’s mind, and she understood exactly what Paddi Mann had meant. “The Song Pillars are a good example of the way Driver used Shorelands,” she said.

Dart put down his fork and grinned.

“He borrowed certain locations on the estate for his book. The reason more people haven’t noticed is that most Driver fanatics live in a very insular world. On the other side, Driver has never attracted much academic attention, and the people who know Shorelands best, like yourselves, don’t spend a lot of time thinking about him.”

“I never think about him,” Margaret said, “but I think I am about to make up for the lapse. What is it you say we haven’t noticed?”

“The names,” Nora said. “Marian just mentioned the Song Pillars. Driver put them into
Night Journey
and called them the Stones of Toon. Toon, song? He changed the Mist Field into the Field of Steam. Mountain Glade is—”

Margaret was staring at her. “Mountain Glade, Monty’s Glen. My Lord. It’s true. Why, this is wonderful.
Think
of all the people devoted to that book. Norman, help yourself to more of that wine. Your wife has earned it for you. Marian, get the bottle of Beaujolais you opened before dinner, and bring it up with the champagne in the refrigerator. We were going to have a Georgina Weatherall celebration, and by God, we shall.”

Marian stood up. “You see what I mean about the Driver conference?”

“I see more than that. I see a Driver
week.
I see Hugo Driver T-shirts flying out of the gift shop. What cottage did that noble man stay in when he was here?”

“Rapunzel.”

Lily mumbled something Nora could not catch.

“Give me three weeks, and I can turn Rapunzel into a shrine to Hugo Driver. We’ll make Rapunzel the Driver center of the universe.”

“He wasn’t noble,” Lily muttered.

“He is now. Lily, this is a great opportunity. Here you are, one of the few people living actually to have known the great Hugo Driver. Every single thing you can remember about him is worth its weight in gold. Was he untidy? We can drop some socks and balled-up typing paper around the room. Did he drink too much? We put a bottle of bourbon on the desk.” Lily took a sullen gulp of wine. “Come on, tell me. What was wrong with him?”

“Everything.”

“That can’t be true.”

“You weren’t here.” She looked at Margaret with a touch of defiance. “He was sneaky. He was nasty to the staff, and he stole things.”

Marian appeared, laden with bottles and a second ice bucket. “Who stole things?”

“We may have to rehabilitate Mr. Driver a bit more than our usual luminaries,” Margaret said.

“You knew he was a thief,” Nora said.

“Of course I knew. Stole silver from this room. Stole a marble ashtray from the lounge. Stole two pillowcases and a pair of sheets from Rapunzel. Books from the library. Stole from the other guests, too. Mr. Favor lost a brand-new fountain pen. The man was a plague, that’s what he was.”

The cork came out of the Veuve Clicquot with a soft, satisfying pop. “Maybe we should rethink our position on Mr. Driver,” Marian said.

“Are you serious? We’re going to polish this fellow up until he shines like gold, and if you’re not willing to try, Lily, we’ll let Agnes do it.”

“She won’t.” Lily drank the rest of her wine. “Agnes was the one who told me half of what I just said. I want some champagne, too, Marian.”

“What else did he steal, Lily?” Nora asked.

The old woman looked at a spot on the wall above Nora’s head, then pushed her champagne flute toward Marian.

“He stole that drawing, didn’t he? The missing Redon. The one you never liked.”

Lily glanced unhappily at Nora. “I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t supposed to, and I didn’t.”

Margaret took a sip of champagne and looked back and forth from Nora to Lily in great perplexity. “Lily, two minutes ago you said that the Mannheim girl stole the drawing.”

“That’s what I was supposed to say.”

“Who told you to say that?”

Lily swallowed more champagne and closed her mouth.

“The mistress, of course,” said Nora.

Dart chuckled happily and helped himself to rabbit pie.

Lily was gazing almost fearfully at Nora.

“She knew because she saw the drawing in Rapunzel the night Miss Mannheim disappeared,” Nora said.

Lily nodded.

“When did she tell you about this? And why? You must have asked the mistress if it was really Hugo Driver and not Miss Mannheim who had stolen the drawing,” Nora said.

Lily nodded again. “It was when she was sick.”

“When there were no more guests, and she almost never left her room. Agnes Brotherhood spent a lot of time with her.”

“It was
unfair
,” Lily said. “Agnes never loved her the way I did. Agnes’s sister Emma used to be her maid, and then Emma died, and the mistress wanted Agnes next to her. She didn’t know the
real
Agnes, it was only that the sisters looked alike. I would have taken better care of her. I tried to watch out for her, but by that time it was Agnes, Agnes, Agnes.”

“So it was Agnes who told you about the drawing first.”

Margaret put her chin on her hand and followed the questions and answers like a spectator at a tennis match.

“She came out of the mistress’s bedroom, and I looked at her face, and I said, ‘What’s wrong, Agnes?’ because anyone could see she was upset, and she told me to go away, but I asked was something wrong with the mistress, and Agnes said, ‘Nothing we can fix,’ and I kept after her and after her, and finally she put her hand over her eyes and she said, ‘I was right about Miss Mannheim. All this time, and I was right.’ That trampy little thing, I said, she made fun of the mistress, and besides she stole that picture. ‘No, she didn’t,’ Agnes says, ‘it was Mr. Hugo Driver who did that.’ She started laughing, but it wasn’t like real laughing, and she said I should go upstairs and ask the mistress if I didn’t believe her.”

“So you did,” Nora said.

Lily finished her glass and shuddered. “I went in and sat down beside her and touched her hair. ‘I suppose Agnes couldn’t keep quiet,’ she said, and it was like before she got sick, with her eyes alive. I said, ‘Agnes lied to me,’ and I told her what she said, and she calmed right down and said, ‘No, Agnes told you the truth. Mr. Driver took that picture,’ and she knew because she saw it in his room at Rapunzel. ‘Why would you go to his room?’ I asked, and she said, ‘I was being my father’s daughter. You could even say I was being Lincoln Chancel.’ So I said, ‘You shouldn’t have let him take it,’ and she told me, ‘Mr. Chancel paid for that ugly drawing a hundred times over. Send Agnes back to me.’ So I sent Agnes back to her room. The next day, the mistress told me that she couldn’t afford my wages anymore, and she would have to let me go, but I was never to tell anyone about who stole that picture, and I never did, not even now.”

“You didn’t tell,” Nora said. “I guessed.”

“My goodness,” said Margaret. “What a strange tale. But I don’t see anything that should trouble us, do you, Marian?”

“Mr. Chancel bought the drawing,” Marian said. “Hugo Driver borrowed it before payment had been arranged, that’s all.”

“Love it,” Dart said.

“If we could arrange for the loan of the drawing from the Driver estate, we could hang it in Rapunzel and weave it into the whole
Night Journey
story.” Margaret sent a look of steely kindness toward Lily. “I know you didn’t like the man, Lily, but we’ve dealt with this problem before. Together, you, Marian, and I can work up any number of sympathetic stories about Mr. Driver. This is going to be a windfall for the Shorelands Trust. More champagne, Norman? And we do have, as a special treat, some
petits vacherins.
Delicious little meringues filled with ice cream and topped with fruit sauces. Mr. Baxter, our baker in Lenox, had some fresh meringue cases today, wonder of wonders, and Miss Weatherall loved
vacherins.
”

“Count me in,” Dart said.

“Marian, would you be so kind?”

Marian once again left the room, this time patting Dart on the back as she went past him. As soon as she had closed the door, Lily said, “I don’t feel well.”

“It’s been a long day,” Margaret said. “We’ll save you some dessert.”

Lily got unsteadily to her feet, and Dart leaped out of his chair to open the door and kiss her cheek as she left the room. When he took his chair again, Margaret smiled at him. “Lily had some difficulties tonight, but she’ll do her usual splendid job during our Driver celebrations. I see no hindrances, do you?”

“Only acts of God,” Dart said, and refilled his wineglass.

Marian returned with a tray of
petits vacherins
and another bottle of champagne. “Despite Lily’s qualms, I thought we had something to celebrate, so I hope you don’t mind, Margaret.”

“I won’t have any, but the rest of you help yourselves,” Margaret replied. Yet, when the desserts had been given out and Marian danced around the table pouring more champagne, she allowed her glass to be filled once more. “Mr. Desmond,” she said, “I’ve been wondering if you would be so kind as to recite one of your poems. It would be an honor to hear something you have written.”

Dart gulped champagne, took a forkful of ice cream and meringue, another swallow of champagne, and jumped to his feet. “I composed this poem in the car on the way to this haven of the literary arts. I hope it will touch you all in some small way. It’s called ‘In Of.’ ”

"Farewell, bliss—world is, are, lustful death them but none his can I, sick, must— Lord, mercy us!

"Men, not wealth, cannot you physic, must all to are the full goes I sick must— Lord, mercy us!

"Beauty but flower wrinkles devour falls the Queens died and dust closed eye” am I die? Have on!

"Strength unto grave feed Hector swords, not with earth holds her Come! the do, I, sick, must— Lord, mercy us!”

He surveyed the table. “What do you think?”

“I’ve never heard anything quite like it,” Margaret said. “The syntax is garbled, but the meaning is perfectly clear. It’s a plea for mercy from a man who expects none. What I find really remarkable is that even though this is the first time I’ve heard the poem, it seems oddly familiar.”

“Norman’s work often has that effect,” Nora said.

“It’s like something reduced to its essence,” Margaret said. “Have you spoken to Norman about our poetry series, Marian?”

“Not yet, but this is the perfect time. Norman, can we talk about your coming back to do a reading?”

Once again Marian had unknowingly assisted Dart’s plans for the night. He pretended to think it over. “We should take care of that tonight. The only problem is that I’m going to need my appointment book, and it’s in the room. But if you decide you want that nightcap, you could come up later.”

“And let my appointment book talk to your appointment book? Yes, why don’t I do that?”

“You young people,” Margaret said. “You’re going to have hours of enjoyment talking about all sorts of things, and I’m going to fall asleep as soon as I fall into bed. But before that, Marian, you and I have to see to the kitchen.”

“Let me help,” Nora said. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Nonsense,” Margaret said. “Marian and I can whip through everything in half an hour. Anyone else would just get in our way.”

“Margaret, dear,” Dart said. “It’s only seven-thirty. You can’t mean you’re really going to go to bed as soon as the dishes are done.”

“I wish I could, but I have an hour or so of work to get through in the office. Marian, let’s take the dishes down and attack the kitchen.”

Dart glanced at Nora, who said, “Marian, I’d like to spend more time with the records and photographs, but I want to rest for a little bit first. So that you won’t have to jump up and down answering the door, do you think you could give me a key?”

“Why don’t we just leave the door unlocked?” Margaret said. “We’re completely safe here. When were you planning on coming back?”

“Nine, maybe? The storm should be over by then. I could get some work done while Norman and Marian match their schedules.”

“Oh?” Marian glanced at Dart. “That works for me. I’ll leave the downstairs lights on and come over to Pepper Pot about nine. Does that sound all right to you?”

“Perfect,” Dart said. “Did I hear a promise of rain gear?”

“Let’s take care of that right now.” Marian left the room, and Nora helped Margaret stack the dishes. Soon Marian returned with green Wellingtons, a shiny red raincoat with snaps, and a wide-brimmed matching hat. “My fireman outfit. Don’t worry, I have lots of other stuff to get me over there dry. And Norman, Tony’s gear is just inside the door.”

Nora removed her shoes and pulled on the high boots. Marian had big feet. She put on the shiny coat and snapped it up, and Dart put down his empty glass. “Very fetching.”

The sound of the rain was stronger at the front of the building. Dart examined Tony’s dirty yellow slicker with revulsion, and he wiped his handkerchief around the interior of the hat before entrusting his head to it. His shoes would not go into the boots, so he too took off his shoes and jammed them into the slicker’s pockets. “Almost rather get wet,” he muttered.

“Wait! Don’t go yet!” Marian called from behind them, and appeared at the top of the marble steps with Nora’s bag and four new candles. “You’ll find matches on the mantelpiece. Good luck!”

96

THE WORLD PAST
the front door was a streaming darkness. Chill water slipped through Nora’s collar and dripped down her back. Water rang like gunfire on the stiff hat. Dart grasped her wrist and began running toward the gravel court. When they reached the path, she nearly went down in the mud, but Dart wrenched her upright and tugged her forward. Water licked into her sleeves. The trees on either side groaned and thrashed, and hallucinatory voices filled the air.

Nothing had worked” she had been unable to speak to any of her possible saviors, and Dart was going to kill Marian Cullinan and spend a happy two hours dissecting her body while waiting for the older women to sink into sleep. Then he would pull her back through the deluge to Main House, where he looked forward to watching her murder Agnes Brotherhood. As he had said to her, genius was the capacity to adapt to change without losing sight of your goal. “Let’s face it,” he had said, “we’re stuck here for the night, so the kidnapping is out. We have to take care of them all—those three old Pop-Tarts, too. They’re calling me a serial killer, I might as well have a little fun and act like one. First of all, we convince everybody that you’ll be coming back here by yourself. When we’re through with the Pinto, we trot back here and visit the bedrooms so kindly pointed out to us. No alarms or telephones. Safety, ease, and comfort. When we’re done, we enjoy a champion’s breakfast of steak and eggs in the kitchen, and depart in the Pinto’s car.”

Trying to match her pace to Dart’s, Nora bent over and ran, able to see no more than the rain sheeting off the brim of the red hat and the mud rising to her ankles. Dart yanked at her hand, and she lost her grip on the bag, which dropped into the mud. The cleaver, the carving knife, and much else tumbled out. Dart yelled something inaudible but unmistakable in tone, dragged her back, and bent down to scoop what had fallen out into the bag. Off to the right, a branch splintered away from a tree and crashed to the ground. Dart rammed the bag into her chest, whirled her around, and pushed her through the mud to the
PEPPER POT
sign and the ascending path. Her feet slipped, and she slid backwards into him. He pushed her again. Rain struck her face like a stream of needles. Nora tried to walk forward, and her right foot slipped out of the lower part of the boot. Dart circled her waist and lifted her off the ground. Her foot came out of the boot. Dart kicked it aside and carried her up the path.

He set her down on the porch and unfastened the clasps of the slicker to pull the key from his jacket pocket. Rain drummed down onto the roof. An unearthly moaning came from the woods.
Hell again,
Nora thought.
No matter how many times you go there, it’s always new.
Dark puddles formed around them. A film of water covered her face, and her ribs ached from Dart’s grip. He opened the door and pointed inside.

His hat and slicker landed on the floor. Nora put down the bag and fished the candles from the pockets of Marian’s coat. Dart took the candles, locked the door, and made shooing motions with his hands. Nora hung Marian’s things on a hook beside the door and lifted her foot out of the remaining boot. “Hang up that garbage I had to wear and find the matches. Then put your bag in the bathtub and get back here to help me pull off these disgusting boots.”

“Put my bag in the tub?”

“You want to destroy a Gucci bag? I have to clean it off and try to dry it.”

Nora carried the dripping bag across the lightless room into the bathroom. Was there a window in the bathroom, a back door? A gleaming black rectangle hung in the far wall. She moved forward until her legs met the bathtub, stepped inside, dropped the bag, and ran her hands along the top of the window. Her fingers found a brass catch. The slide refused to move. “What are you doing?” Dart shouted.

“Putting down the bag.” She pulled at the slide, but it was frozen into place.

“Get back in here.”

A column of darkness against a background of lighter darkness ordered her to the fireplace on the far side of the room. Holding her hands before her, Nora put one foot in front of another and made her way across the room.

Apparently able to see in the dark, Dart directed her to the fireplace and matches, then told her to walk fifteen paces forward, turn left, and keep walking until she ran into him.

Dart grabbed the matches out of her hands, lit a candle, and walked away. She could see nothing but the flame. He jammed the candle into a holder from the windowsill, lit the other two, and put them into the candlesticks on the table in the center of the room. The rope and duct tape lay beside an ice bucket and a liter of Absolut. Dart took two gulps of vodka and drew in a sharp breath. Muddy bootprints wandered across the floor like dance instructions. “Sounds like the inside of a bass drum.” He dropped into a chair and stuck out one leg. “Do it.”

Nora put her hands on the slimy boot. “Pull.” Her hands slipped off. “Take your clothes off.”

“Take my clothes off?”

“So you can prop my legs against your hip and push. Don’t want to wreck that suit.”

While she was undressing, Dart sent her to the kitchen for a glass. He blew into it, held it up to the flame for inspection, and pulled a dripping handful of slivers from the bucket. Before drinking, he drew a circle in the air with the glass, and Nora walked back to the bed and removed the rest of her clothes. “Hang up your things. Have to look good until we can get new clothes.” He followed her with his eyes. “Okay, get over here, and put your back into it this time.”

She pulled his outthrust leg into her side. His trousers were sodden, and an odor of wet wool came from him. She held her breath, gripped his leg with her left hand, pushed at the heel, and the boot came away. “Let my people be!” Dart swallowed vodka. “One down, one to go.”

When the second boot surrendered, Nora staggered forward and felt an all too familiar surge of warmth throughout her body. Dizziness, a sudden sweatiness of the face, a hot necessity to sit down. “Oh, no,” she said.

“Mud washes off,” Dart said. Then he bothered to look at her. “Oh Christ, a hot flash. God, that’s ugly. Wipe off the mud and lie down.”

She got to the bathroom and splashed water on her face before erasing the clumps and streaks from her body.

When she came out, Dart pointed to the bed. “Women. Slaves to their bodies, every one.” She was vaguely aware of his giving her another disgusted look. “Seven-hundred-dollar Gucci bag, covered with mud. Here I go, doing your work for you again.”

He poured more vodka. “And wouldn’t you know it, the ice is all gone.” Nora watched the ceiling darken as he carried a candle into the bathroom.

Her body blazed. Water ran. Dart spoke to himself in tones of complaining self-pity. Nora wiped her forehead. She could feel her temperature floating up. Bug, where are you, little bug? A hot flash is hardly complete without a touch of formication. Shall we formicate? Come on, let’s try for the brass ring. Dick Dart is repulsed by female biology, let’s have the whole menopausal circus. Give me an F, give me an O, give me an R. Formication, of thee I sing. The riot in her body swung the bed gently up and back. A rustle of leathery wings and a buzz of glee came from beyond the fireplace. Begone, fiends, I don’t want you now. She wiped her face with a corner of the sheet, and it came away slick with moisture.

Dart poked his head through the bathroom door and announced that if she wasn’t ready by the time the Pinto came, she’d be sorry.
I’m plenty sorry right now, thank you very much.

Having enjoyed itself for some three or four minutes, the hot flash subsided, leaving behind the usual sense of depletion. From the bathroom came swishing sounds accompanied by Dartish grumbles. Nora remembered that he had put the gun in his desk drawer. Surprise, surprise! She wiped her body with her hands and swung her legs off the bed. The sounds of running water and exclamations of woe testified to the absorption of Mr. Dart in his task. Despite her ignorance of revolvers and their operation, surely she could work out how to fire the thing once she got her hands on it. She moved silently toward the middle of the room and observed that the desk drawer appeared to have been pulled open. Another six tiptoe steps brought her to the desk. She lowered her hand into the drawer and touched bare wood. What’s the matter, Dick? Don’t you trust me?

She moved to the door, put on the slicker, and snapped it shut. In the bathroom, Dart was bent over the tub, his sleeves pushed up past his elbows. A candle stood at the bottom of the tub, and flickering shadows swarmed over the walls. Dye dripping from Dart’s hair had stained the top of his shirt collar black. A thick line of grit ran from the middle of the tub to the drain, and limp bills had been hung over the side to dry. The cleaver and the carving knife lay encased in mud beside the bag. Various bottles and brushes and other cosmetic devices had already been washed and placed atop the toilet.

He took in the slicker with contempt. “Grab a towel. One of the little ones.”

She gave him a hand towel, and he passed it under the running tap. “Wipe up the mud out there before it dries.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Nora took the towel into the room to swab muddy footprints. By the time she returned, Dart was holding the bag out before him.

“This thing might survive after all.” He handed her the wet bag. “Get it as dry as you can. Tear the pages out of one of those books, wad a towel into the center of the bag, and cram the pages between the towel and the inside of the bag. Don’t forget the corners. Do it in here, so I can make sure you do it right.”

She brought the paperbacks into the bathroom and placed them on the floor beside the toilet to buff the handbag with the towel.

“Blot up as much water as you can. Ram it into the bottom corners.”

Nora pushed the towel around the inside of the bag, and Dart bent over the tub to rinse the towel she had used on the floor under hot water, rub soap into it, and begin washing the cleaver.

“You memorize everything you read, and you never forget it?”

He sighed and leaned against the tub. “I told you. I don’t
memorize
anything. Once I read a page, it stays in there all by itself. If I want to see it, I just
look at
it, like a photograph. All those books I had to read for my old ladies, I could recite backwards if I wanted to. Let me feel that.”

He swiped his fingers on her towel and ran them across the lining of the bag. “Wad toilet paper down in there. Would you like to hear the complete backwards
Pride and Prejudice
? Austen Jane by? Almost as bad as the forward version.”

Nora stuffed toilet paper into the corners of the bag and began ripping pages out of
Night Journey.

Dart ran the cleaver under hot water and soaped it again. “How do you think I got through law school? Name a case, I could quote the whole damn thing. If that was all you had to do, I’d have made straight A’s.”

“That’s amazing.” She plastered the first pages against the sodden silk lining.

“You’ll never know how relieved I was when I got assigned someone like Marjorie West. Seventy-two years old, rich as the queen of England, never read a book in her life. Four dead husbands and never happier than when talking about sex. Ideal woman.”

Nora had met Marjorie West, whose Mount Avenue house was even grander than the Poplars. She was herself a structure on the grand scale, though much reconstructed, especially about the face. Nora found that she did not wish to think about Marjorie West’s relationship with Dick Dart. These days, Marjorie West probably did not want to think too much about it, either. Nora tore another twenty pages out of
Night Journey.
“So you could quote from this book, too.”

“You heard me quote from that book.” He placed the cleaver on the rug and addressed the carving knife.

“Tell me about that massy vault, the one that’s bigger on the inside than on the outside.”

“You have the book right in front of you.”

“I can’t read in this light. What does the vault look like?”

Dart grimaced at the amount of mud still clinging to the knife. “What does it look like on the outside? I’ll have to give you the whole sentence so you get the atmosphere.
’With many a fearsome and ferocious glance, many a painful jab about the ribs, many an adjustment of her enormous hat, Madame Lyno-Wyno Ware led Pippin through the corridors of her spider-haunted mansion to a portal bearing the words most private, thence into a chamber of gloomy aspect and to another such door marked most most private, into a far gloomier chamber and a door marked most most most privately private, which creaked open upon the gloomiest of all the chambers, and therein extended her gaudy arm to signify, concealed beneath a tattered sofa, a homely leaden strongbox no more than a foot high.’
That’s all, ‘homely leaden strongbox no more than a foot high.’ From there on, it’s about Pippin’s disappointment, that little thing can’t be the famous massy vault, but the boy bites the bullet and forges ahead, says the right words, and it all turns out all right, kind of.”

He rinsed the carving knife, brought it near his eyes for inspection, and rubbed the soapy cloth into the crevices around the hilt.

“The golden key brings him to Madame Lyno-Wyno Ware?”

“Lie? No. Why, nowhere.” Dart picked up his glass with a dripping hand and finished the vodka. “The truth is all-important, can’t lie to Mrs. Lyno-Wyno Ware, nope.” Twitching with impatience, he watched her stuff paper into the bag. “That’ll do. Scamper into the kitchen and get me a refill.”

When she returned, Dart took a mouthful, set down the glass, and meticulously dried the knives. A hard red flush darkened his cheekbones. “Clean the mess out of the tub. Work fast, I have a lot to do, must prepare for the arrival of sweet Marian.”

Nora knelt in front of the bathtub. A few dimes and quarters glinted in the slow-moving brown liquid. The thunder of rainfall on the roof suddenly doubled. The window over the tub bulged inward for a second, and the entire cottage quivered.

Nora came out of the bathroom. Dart was staring at the ceiling. “Thought the whole thing was going to come down. Put the bag on the table and bring me the rope. Hardly need the tape, wouldn’t you agree?”