The Lady of Lyon House (24 page)

“Don't expect me to be a hypocrite, Julia,” she snapped. “I'm much too old for that. I'm sorry she's dead, of course. But I feel no grief for her. She was a nuisance, a gin-ridden old nuisance. I have no idea why I put up with her for as long as I did.”

“I understand,” I replied.

“I hope you do,” she said briskly. “You're very young. The young are inclined to be ruled by their sentiment. Later on you'll learn that sentiment should be preserved for something worthy of it. Agatha certainly wasn't.”

She stood up, brushing the stiff black skirts of her dress. She had a look of sadness in her eyes that belied her words. I knew she was far more upset than she pretended to be. She reached up to brush an auburn curl from her temple and then told me that she was going back up to her room. She said she would not be down for dinner but asked to be informed of Edward's arrival, regardless of the hour. She left the room, moving slowly and stiffly.

I was left alone with my thoughts, and they were not pleasant ones. I decided to go up to my room, and met Molly in the hall.

“Did you have a nice time last night?” I asked, knowing how innocuous the question must sound under the circumstances.

“Oh, yes,” Molly replied. “Teddie took me to the Inn. Bertie came in and saw us together. He was furious! There was almost a fight, but Teddie edged away—left me with Bertie. It was ever so grand! You look a little pale, Miss Julia—”

“I'm all right,” I said.

“You're still upset, and no wonder! That poor old lady—”

“I don't want to talk about it, Molly,” I told her.

“I saw her last night, Bertie 'n I did,” she continued as though I had not spoken. “I remarked to Bertie how odd it was, the old lady out like that—”

I had not really been listening to anything Molly was saying, but now I paid close attention to her words. Molly knew that she had an important bit of information, and she played it for all it was worth, going into detail and adding her own embellishments.

“Bertie 'n I were comin' back from the Inn. It was late, and the moon was splendid—everything was all lit up. The ground was still wet and drops dripped from the leaves, though it had stopped rainin' hours before. We were comin' back, like I said, and I saw this woman crossin' the road, leavin' Dower House—”

“It was Agatha?” I prompted.

“She was wearin' a long, dark cloak. At first I thought it was the mysterious lady—Mr. Edward's friend—'cause we'd just been talkin' about her, remember? Then I saw it was Mrs. Crandall. Her face was all worried-like, and she kept lookin' around as though she expected to see someone jump out of the woods. She didn't see us, though. We were dawdlin' along—”

“She was leaving Dower House?”

“Where that mad Mr. Ashley is stayin'. I wondered why she had gone to see him. I said to Bertie how odd it was, her goin' to Dower House. Can't think of why. But she was wastin' her time last night. That's for sure. He wasn't home.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“He's been gone for two days,” Molly replied. “Didn't you know? He left with a suitcase and took the train day before yesterday. He left that rusty red dog of his with one of the farmers, asked him to keep it for a couple of days while he was gone.”

“Why did he leave?” I inquired.

“To buy some special kind of paintin' supplies, he said.”

I did not find it at all unusual that Molly knew all this. There was very little that happened in and around the village that was not general knowledge within an hour or so after it occurred. A man as striking and unusual as Philip Ashley could hardly buy a cigar without the whole village commenting on it.

“He hasn't come back yet?” I asked.

“No. Dower House was all dark and closed up last night. Mrs. Crandall looked very upset, like I said.

“What time was this, Molly?”

“Oh, late. After midnight, I would say.”

“Have you—mentioned this to anyone?”

“You're the first one I've told. There's been so much excitement I haven't had time to talk to anyone.”

“I wish you would keep it to yourself, Molly,” I said.

“Is it important?”

“Not really,” I replied glibly. “I would just prefer you didn't say anything about it for a while. Not to anyone.” I hesitated for a moment and then asked if she was certain Mr. Ashley hadn't come back yet.

“Not yet,” she said. “Bertie delivered some groceries this afternoon, and he said the house was still closed up.”

“Thank you, Molly,” I said, dismissal in my voice.

“Oh, by the way,” she said as I started to walk on down the hall, “do you remember those two men I told you about—the ones who said they were surveyors? The ones I was so suspicious about—”

“Of course. What about them.”

“Well, they're still around. Everyone thought they'd gone off, but they are still here. Bertie saw 'em prowling around a field near here, one night as he was leavin' me after we'd met in the gardens. He followed 'em. They're stayin' in an old deserted cottage down the river a way—”

“Perhaps they have legitimate reasons,” I replied.

“Them askin' all those questions about Mr. Edward and the old lady, actin' so suspicious. Of course, they
could
really be surveyors, but I know criminal types when I see 'em. They're up to no good, no good at all—”

Molly was obviously eager to discuss the whole matter at length. I discouraged her with a sharp look. I was curious about the two men, and I was even more suspicious than Molly, but I had things to do now.

Half an hour later I left the house. It was cool, and I was wearing a dark blue cloak over my light blue dress. I hurried across the gardens, through a patch of trees and was on the road that led to Dower House. It was late afternoon now, and the sky was a faint green shade, growing darker. The trees cast black shadows across the road. There was a brisk wind that caused my cloak to flutter away from my shoulders. My heart was pounding a little at the enormity of what I was about to do, but nothing could have stopped me at that point.

Something was going on, something that had started in London. Philip Ashley had been in it from the first. He had followed me in the fog, and when I had come to Lyon House, he had followed me again. He turned up every time something happened, or his name did. Agatha Crandall had paid him a visit, had come home drunk and muttering enigmatic statements that had infuriated Corinne.

Last night she had gone to see him again, and last night she had died. I was certain that the two things were connected. Agatha's death was the result of her visit to Dower House. Molly said he had not been at home, but perhaps he had returned early, without anyone knowing about it. Perhaps he had followed Agatha to Lyon House, slipping in through the opened French windows and sliding against the wall as he went up the staircase. Agatha had been pushed down the stairs. What I had seen had not been merely the awkward stumbling of a drunken old woman. It had been the struggle of a woman fighting for her life against an assailant invisible to me in the shadows. I was convinced of that now.

I believed Philip Ashley was that assailant.

Dower House looked serene in the fading light. The last rays of the sun washed the cream colored brick with soft shadow. The brown shutters were closed and fastened. The wind rustled the strands of dark green ivy that clung to the brick. Behind it the apple orchard made a muted background of rose and gold, fading as the shadows spread. It was a lovely place, so calm and innocent to the eye, but I wondered what ugly secrets it would hold.

I had to climb over the front fence, remembering as I did the last time I had climbed it. I had ripped my skirt then, and Philip Ashley had laughed so rudely. In my mind I could still hear that laughter, and it was a demonic sound, endowed with evil. The house looked empty. I went to the front door and knocked loudly, nevertheless, and I could hear the sound echoing in the empty rooms beyond the door. I have no idea what I would have done had Philip Ashley opened the door. I don't know how I would have explained my rash conduct. But no one was in the house. I could sense its emptiness as I knocked again. I turned the door knob. The door was locked securely. I intended to get inside somehow.

I left the porch and walked around the house, trying each shutter. They all seemed to be secured from within, and I would have had to tear them off to get in. For that I would have needed tools. I had almost given up when I discovered loose shutters on a window in the back of the house. They were latched, but the latch was old and rusty. I pulled at the shutters with all my might. They flew open, tearing the latch off. It dangled there, where he would find it, and he would know that someone had broken in, but I did not care.

The windows the shutters had protected were closed but not locked. I found a stick in the yard and wedged it between the sill and the lower part of the window frame. I edged the window up enough to get my hands under it. The frame was tight, the wood swollen with age, and it took me a long time to push the window open enough to allow me to climb in. I finally managed to do this, falling into the room on my hands and knees. I had a moment of sheer wicked triumph as I stood up and looked around the room. It was a bedroom, everything tidy and neat. I peered into the closet. His clothes hung there, and his shoes were arranged in neat rows on the floor. I went through each drawer of the bureau, examining all the clothes, looking under piles of handkerchiefs. I did not know exactly what I was looking for, but I knew that when I found it I would recognize it. I put everything back in place and left the bedroom.

I walked cautiously down the hall to the front part of the house. I knew no one was around, yet I had an uneasy feeling. My nerves were on edge, and the strangeness of the house and the boldness of my invasion combined made me wary. My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. The floor creaked and groaned under my weight, and I felt that someone would jump out from behind every door I passed.

The whole front part of the house was one enormous room, as littered and messy as the bedroom had been neat. A large table was cluttered with rags, papers, pots of paint, a palette crusted with blobs of dried color. Canvases leaned against the wall in tilted heaps, wads of paper filled the fireplace, books and magazines were stacked on every chair. The huge sofa drawn up before the hearth had broken springs. The nap of the carpet was shiny. A plate with scraps of food and an empty bottle of gin were on the floor beside the sofa. The odors of paint and turpentine and male body were overwhelming.

The presence of Philip Ashley filled the room, even though he was not physically present. His shaving mug and lather brush sat on a desk, a chipped mirror propped up in front of them. A pair of his boots stood awkwardly in front of a chair. One of his shirts was draped across the back of another chair. It was as though he had just stepped out for a moment and would return at any instant. I stood in the doorway, almost afraid to enter a room so redolent of the man I suspected of murder.

I moved over to the desk. Surely any important papers would be in one of the drawers. I pulled open the top drawer. It contained pencils and paper and stamps and various unimportant objects. The next drawer yielded nothing, nor the next, but when I tried to open the bottom drawer I discovered that it was locked. I did not hesitate. Again I took a hairpin from my hair and proceeded to spring the lock. I was beginning to feel very proficient at the task.

The lock clicked. The drawer tilted open. I took out a dark green folder and spread its contents over the top of the desk. I studied them for a long time. At first I was disappointed, thinking this merely a collection of odds and ends, sentimental keepsakes. There were several newspaper clippings, a cheap photo gravure, a bill announcing the opening of an exhibit, a letter. Then I saw that the letter was from Scotland Yard, addressed to a Philip Mann.

Dear Mann,

I will again assure you that our men are doing everything possible to clear this matter up. Your suggestions and efforts are appreciated as sincere, but they have begun to be somewhat a nuisance. You will be a far greater help if you leave the matter to us. Any further interference will be looked upon gravely. Nay, if you turn up here again I shall take it upon myself to see that you are restrained. Is that clear enough?

Yours,

Inspector A. D. Clark

I read the letter over again. It did not make sense. Who was Philip Mann? I studied the gravure. It was poorly printed on a piece of heavy cardboard, the colors running together. It was a woman's face. The cheeks were maroon, the eyes brown, the complexion a yellow-brown due to the poor printing. The elaborately coiled and curled hair was black. I could tell very little about the features because of the terrible color tones. Who was she? Some woman Ashley kept in London? What was he doing with her picture?

The bill announcing the exhibit was printed in copper ink on expensive cream colored paper. The letterhead read MANN GALLERIES, with an impressive London address beneath. It described a collection of art objects and uncut precious stones that would be on display during the dates listed below. As I studied it, something began to click in my mind. I remembered something, some overheard conversation. I could not recall exactly what it had been about.

The newspaper clippings clarified that. They gave a complete coverage of the Mann case that had been the talk of London a few weeks ago. I remembered hearing Bert and the girls discussing it one morning at the breakfast table, and I had read an account of it myself one night in my dressing room. I studied the clippings carefully.

Clinton Mann, owner of the Mann Galleries, had given the exhibit described in the announcement, and that night thieves had broken into the galleries and stolen the precious stones. Mr. Mann, who lived in an apartment over the galleries, had tried to stop the thieves and they had murdered him. He had been horribly, brutally beaten to death. Scotland Yard had few clues, but they were looking for a beautiful brunette who had been seen in Mann's company in the week prior to the robbery. They believed that the woman was a member of the gang and had set up the robbery. The newspapers made no mention of Mann's family.