The Lady of Lyon House (23 page)

I didn't answer the question. I dismissed Molly and went back into the library. In a few minutes, another maid came in with a dinner tray and put it down on the coffee table before the sofa. I didn't have much appetite, and I merely picked at the food. I was too busy thinking about this new development to have any desire to eat.

Edward Lyon had a girl friend in London, a “flashy thing,” and he frequently went there to see her. There was nothing so unusual about any of that, I thought. I had been around the music hall too long to have many illusions about “gentlemen.” He had visited her regularly until his aunt became ill, and then it had been impossible for him to go to London for a while, and so the woman had come here—she had been seen by one of the servant girls. Corinne made a remarkable recovery, and in a typical spurt of rage had fired all the servants, had resumed her morning rides and carried on in the old manner. Edward was no longer tied down by her illness, and yet the woman had come again, carrying a suitcase. It was the same suitcase I had discovered hidden in the cleaning closet—I was certain of that.

Why had the woman come back with a suitcase, and what had happened to her? Edward might have been able to deceive Corinne while she was on her sick bed, might have been able to make love to his mistress in comparative safety, but he would never have been able to carry it off while Corinne was up and about. That much I knew. Corinne was sharp and perceptive, and she would have known immediately. There would have been no bounds to her rage. What had the woman come for, and where was she now? Why was her suitcase hidden away in the closet?

For that matter, I thought, why had Edward Lyon gone to London so suddenly? Did it have something to do with this mysterious woman, or did it concern the man he had been talking to at the fair? Mr. Herron, Philip Ashley had called him. Who was Mr. Herron? Who was the woman to whom the suitcase belonged? I pondered over these things, sitting there on the sofa with the dinner tray before me.

I looked up, startled. The rain had stopped, and it was the sudden cessation of noise that had startled me. There was a heavy stillness in its place, and the library seemed suddenly unbearable. The fire had died in the fireplace, a mere heap of ashes now, and the air in the closed room was stuffy. I stepped over to the French windows and drew them open to let in some of the breeze.

It was a wet, stained world I looked out on. Everything was in hues of brown and gray, mud-stained and damp, and the sky was a curious green tint, darkening. The invisible sun was going down, and long black shadows began to reach across the garden like skeletal fingers. The air had a greenish hue, borrowed from the sky. Drops of rain still dripped from the eaves, but the monotonous falling had ceased. The fresh air blew into the library, laden with the odors of damp soil and molding leaves. I left the French windows open and went back to the sofa.

I had not realized how tired I was. I sat back on the cushions, my mind still pondering over this new mystery, and my eyelids grew heavy. I do not know how long I slept, for when I awoke the room was in darkness. A single ray of moonlight poured in through the opened windows. It wavered with milky radiance, the motes dancing and stirring, as though they had just been disturbed.

I woke up all at once, abruptly, sharply alert. I felt a chill all over my body. The room was icy cold, but there was another reason for the chill. I had the acute sensation that someone had just passed through the room, moving stealthily, and I stared at the beam of moonlight where the motes still stirred violently. I tried to tell myself that I had just had a nightmare, but I knew that was not so. The sensation was real. It was as though the air I breathed had just been shared with someone else.

I was tense, and my hands were clutching a cushion. I could hear the clock ticking over the mantle and the soft rustle of the curtains as the wind disturbed them. The rest of the house was in silence, but it was a heavy silence, laden with secrets. I was too frightened to move for a while.

My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. There was enough moonlight to see that the room was just as it had been before. Nothing had been disturbed. The box of water colors and the empty cup still set on the hearth beside the painting I had done earlier. The corners of the paper had curled up. The dinner tray was still on the coffee table, Walpole's novel still resting on the arm of the sofa. Despite this, I knew someone had walked through the room, coming through the opened windows.

I went over to the windows to close them. I stared down at the wet tiles of the terrace. Were those dark stains footsteps? The whole surface was streaked with mud, and I could not be certain. I closed the windows, fastened them, and drew the curtains, closing off the milky light. I paused, listening. I thought I heard a shuffling noise somewhere in the front part of the house.

There was a lamp and matches on the little table in the hall just outside the library. I stepped quickly across the room and through the door. It took me only a moment to locate the lamp and start it glowing. I wondered what I should do. I knew that Clark, the gardener, would be in his room in the servants' quarters, but I was apprehensive about waking up the servants. There would be a general alarm, and I would feel extremely foolish if it turned out to be my imagination after all. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps one of the maids had gone out to meet her boy friend, like Molly, and had chosen to come in unobserved.

I walked down the hall, holding the lantern high. It cast flickering shadows that moved on the wall like agile black dancers. I went into the parlor. It was empty, and there were no signs that anyone had been there. The dining room was empty, too, the wavering light gleaming on the varnished mahogany wainscotting. As I stood there examining the room I heard a distinct noise in another part of the house. It sounded as if someone had stumbled against a piece of furniture.

I stepped quickly into the hall and called out. There was no answer. Instead there was a listening silence. I moved into the great front hall. I could see the crystals of the chandelier dripping down, catching the light and throwing it back. I saw the front door, the potted plants that stood on either side of it. Behind me the staircase climbed up into a nest of shadows. I turned. Something brushed against me. The lamp went out.

I caught my breath. It had happened so quickly that I did not really know exactly
what
had happened: I stood there, holding the dead lamp in a trembling hand. Had a sudden gust of wind blown against me and at the same time blown out the lamp? No, no, I told myself, whatever had brushed against me had been far more tangible than a gust of wind. Now I was surrounded by impenetrable darkness, and I knew I was not alone.

I waited, unable to move. I could feel someone else in the hall. I could hear the soft sound of breathing. Someone was moving, slowly, very, very slowly, but I could sense the movement. I was cold all over and my hand was trembling so violently it seemed the lamp would shatter to the floor. I waited, and nothing happened.

Gradually forms began to distinguish themselves in the blackness, darker. I saw the outlines of furniture. I saw the tiny threads of moonlight seeping in through the closed draperies. There was a sliding noise, very faint, and it was going away from me. It was going up the stairs. Into that nest of shadows moved another shadow. It was just a shade darker than the rest, but it moved, and I knew it was human. I acted quickly.

I ran silently through the darkness to the table. I groped for the box of matches I knew were there and knocked over a vase. It crashed to the floor with an ear-splitting explosion of sound, but my trembling fingers found the flat box. It was a moment before I was steady enough to strike one of the matches. I had to strike three before I could get the wick to burn properly.

I hurried back to the front hall. The lamp wick waved wildly, and the shadows did a demon dance on the walls. I stood at the bottom of the staircase and called. There was no reply, but the shadows at the top of the stairs seemed to stir. I saw something move. Then I heard a strange noise. I did not know if it was laughter or hysterical sobbing.

Agatha Crandall stepped out of the shadows. She wore a shabby rose colored dressing robe, tattered lace at throat and wrists. Her hair was wildly disarrayed and her cheeks were flushed. She stared down at where I stood, but she did not seem to see me. In one hand she held a bottle of gin, and with the other she seemed to be pushing at the shadows that surrounded her.

Her body swayed back and forth, into the shadows and out. I could see the rose colored blur of her robe and the white shape of her face. I watched with horror as she tottered on a pair of high heeled slippers. I saw her step down the first step and then jerk back. She threw her arms out wildly, still holding onto the bottle of gin. There seemed to be a great thrashing of shadows, and then she fell. She tumbled down, her body bumping over the steps.

I stood with my back flattened against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, one hand holding the lamp high. I tried to scream, but no sound came. I stared at the body at my feet.

Agatha Crandall looked up at me. Her eyes were wells of sadness. I saw her lift her hand limply, and at the same time I saw the gin spilling out of the bottle and soaking into the carpet. It made a gurgling sound. Her mouth moved, and I heard a faint whisper. I leaned over her and held my face close to her lips.

“Man,” she said. “Ashley. Go see Beau, Julia. Go see Beau. He is—hurry, before—before. Cheated. Tricked. You, too. Never meant to—” Her eyes grew wide, and her body twitched. “Man—” she cried in a hoarse voice. Her body twitched again, convulsively.

Then she was silent. I knew she would never speak again.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

C
ORINNE
'
S FACE
was ashen as she sat in the parlor. Her hands were covered with black gloves, and they moved in her lap like fluttering birds. She wore a dress of black broadcloth, and the veil she had covered her face with earlier this morning was now draped back over the auburn hair. She had conducted herself beautifully, regally this morning when the men came to ask questions. She had been every inch the grand lady, not once exposing the fierce temper or malicious tongue. She was not stricken with grief over Agatha Crandall's death. She was, in truth, rather relieved, but the doctor and the other men who had come had no idea of this. They asked their questions in gentle voices, shaking their heads solemnly, and Corinne had even raised her handkerchief to her eyes. Once her voice cracked, and they all waited politely for her to regain composure.

The verdict on Agatha Crandall's death was a simple one. She had a drop too much to drink, had lost her balance and fallen down the stairs. One of the high heels had broken off her slipper, and this was taken as the major cause of the accident. The bottle of gin she had clutched even in death was added evidence, if evidence was needed. The body was removed to the mortician's, and the men had gently taken their leave, expressing deepest sympathy.

Corinne had carried it off wonderfully. She had even apologized to Dr. Redmund and agreed to let him examine her in the forthcoming week. The doctor generously agreed to handle all the funeral arrangements for her. When all the men had gone, Corinne went into the parlor, threw back the veil and poured a stiff glass of brandy.

“I wish Edward were here,” she said now, moving her hands nervously in her lap.

“He will be back tonight, won't he?”

“He said he would. You never know with him, though. It may be another week.”

“I'm sure he'll return on schedule,” I said quietly. “Shouldn't you go up and rest, Corinne? This has been quite an ordeal for you.”

“It was,” she said simply.

I had seen Agatha Crandall lose her balance and fall down the staircase, and that is what I had told them. Immediately after the accident the house was full of lights, swarming with servants, and there had been no sign of any mysterious intruder. What had happened before might never have happened at all, I told myself. The wind had blown the French windows back, causing them to slam against the wall and wake me up. I had been alarmed to wake up so suddenly, and all that followed was the product of an over-active imagination.

This is what I told myself, but I was not sure I believed it.

Agatha's cryptic words before her death might have been the gibberish of a drunken old woman. I could not figure them out. I felt they contained some imperative message for me, and I intended to discover it for myself. I knew that it concerned Philip Ashley in some way. She had mentioned his name.

I believed she had given me the name of her murderer. I tried not to think that. If Philip Ashley had crept into the house and gone up the stairs, if he had been the dark form I had imagined sliding along the wall, then where had he vanished to after the “accident”? Lights burned in every room moments later, and all the windows and doors had been securely locked. I
had examined them myself.

I was confused and bewildered. I tried to think clearly with a logical mind. It was impossible. There was no evidence whatsoever of any crime, and yet I kept remembering that nest of shadows at the top of the staircase. I remembered Agatha swirling and weaving, as though fighting someone behind her. Had I seen a dark arm dart out and shove her, right before she fell? I could not be certain.

“You saw it all?” Corinne said.

“Yes.”

“How—treacherous. Tell me again, Julia.”

“She was at the top of the stairs. It was very dark. She was surrounded by shadows, and I just had a single lamp. She wove in and out of the shadows. Then she fell.”

“Dreadful,” Corinne said. “Dreadful. I always knew Agatha would have an accident of that kind. She couldn't hold her liquor. The wonder is that it hadn't happened sooner.”

I stared at Corinne. Her voice was cold. I was amazed that she could be so callous. She seemed to sense my thoughts. A curious smile played at the corners of her lips.