The Lady of Lyon House (27 page)

“She'll hate you.”

“She hates me now, always has, and that hate drove her to me much more forcefully than love would have done. Love is a weak emotion, for the weak.”

I closed my eyes. I tried to close off the sound of his voice. He seemed to be amused, full of satisfaction. I sensed that he wanted me to beg and plead, to struggle and fight. It would have given him more opportunity to exercise his perverted sense of mastery. I had to remain calm. I had to conserve all my energy. When the moment came, I had to be ready to fight him with all the strength I possessed.

We came out of the trees. A small slope led down to the river. The deserted old boathouse set on the edge of the water. The wood was rotten and the roof sagged. Barnacles clung to the slats in the water. A heavy coil of rope dangled from a nail near a window with broken panes. The pier reached out into the water, and it looked flimsy and dangerous. The river itself was a tumultuous black force, swollen by recent rains. It roared away in the night, shattering the silence.

“The water is quite deep at the end of the pier,” Edward said, his lips still close to my ear. “With those heavy skirts, you'll sink almost at once. You couldn't possibly swim in that torrent.”

What he said was true. It would have been impossible for anyone to swim in that dark, angry flood. To torment me, Edward broke a small branch from a tree and hurled it into the water. The branch twirled for a moment on the surface before the water engulfed it and carried it cascading downstream. Edward laughed softly and prodded me forward.

“You—you really mean to do this?” I whispered.

“Of course. I must admit that it would give me more pleasure to do it with my bare hands, but I must not be selfish. I will let the water do the work for me. I have to be careful, you see. When they find you, it must look as though you fell—or jumped. There can be no marks.”

“You have it all worked out, don't you?”

“Come along,” he said. His voice was no longer the polite voice of the social dilettante. It was throaty and harsh, the voice of a man ready to kill.

We were at the pier now. The wooden planks of the platform reached out to a point almost halfway across the river. There were large cracks between each plank, and one of the planks had rotted in two, leaving a large gap. The odor of milkweed and moss was strong here on the river. A frog croaked angrily from its perch on a rock and plopped into the swirling waters with a soft splash. The pier gleamed, wet and evil. I could feel my heart pounding.

It was a long walk to the end of the pier, and a dangerous one. He would have to make it with me. He would have to be right behind me. He would have to keep his own balance, and he would not be able to hold my arm so tightly. Perhaps I could break free. Perhaps I could fall against him and make him lose his balance. There must be some way I could save myself. I closed my eyes and took the fist step onto the rickety wooden platform.

The planks were not set close together. There was a gap half a foot wide between each plank, and this required careful footing. Edward held my arm and forced me to move in front of him. The water rushed and roared directly beneath us, knocking against the moorings. The pier seemed to sway. I dared not look down. The swirling, crashing waves inches beneath us made me dizzy and I knew I would lose my balance if I dared look at them. I put my feet forward tentatively, feeling for the next plank. Edward followed, his fingers awkwardly gripping my arm. The pier was too narrow for him to move beside me.

The wet, rotten wood creaked and groaned beneath our weight. I was terrified, yet my mind was clear and sharp. The fingers were not biting into the flesh of my arm now; they gripped it loosely. The pier swayed and groaned, and the waters lashed at it violently, splashing the hem of my skirt. It took five minutes to reach the halfway point, and I looked at the end of the pier with horrified fascination. I could not go any further. My body seemed to freeze.

Edward gave me a shove, but instead of going ahead, I fell back against him. He cried out, and the wind seized the sound and shattered it. I then hurled myself forward. I fell on my hands and knees, gripping the planks in front of me. I turned around, and I saw him precariously trying to maintain his balance. He threw his arms out and seemed to embrace the air, and then he managed to stand erect. He did not move for a while. His chest was heaving, and the wind lashed his cape, making it whip about his shoulders like a pair of demonic wings.

I got to my feet. I stood on the pier, facing him. He was several yards away. His face was a mask of rage, the lips pressed down tightly and one brow arched high. He took a step forward. I braced myself, ready to fight to the death. I was trembling violently as I watched him coming nearer and nearer. He was laughing quietly, and it was the ugliest sound I have ever heard.

He reached out for me. I screamed, and then I saw the streak of orange fire. I heard the explosion. Edward threw up his arms, his eyes wide with disbelief. He staggered backwards. The scream he attempted died in his throat. For a second he balanced on one foot, and then he fell into the surging black waters.

Philip Mann stood at the edge of the pier. One hand gripped a still smoking revolver, and draped across the other arm was the cloak I had left in his front room. He jammed the revolver into his belt and stepped over the planks towards me. It seemed an eternity before I felt his arms folding the cloak about my shoulders.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

N
OW
,
IN LATE
M
AY
, London was aglow with a soft beauty that made me think of a water color done with delicate strokes. The sky was like a pearl and gleaming like watered silk. The sun gilded even the grubbiest old building with golden light. Even the sooty chimney pots looked new and respectable. The trees that grew along the sidewalks were tall and slender with tan and white bark, their branches bejeweled with tiny green buds that would soon burst into leaf. Children played in the park across the way, coaches and carts rumbled over the cobblestones, hawkers cried their wares. The confusion and noise was overwhelming as I walked down the street, and I welcomed it with open arms.

It was wonderful to know it was all over. It was wonderful to know that all shadows were gone, all threats vanished, to know that I could hurry down the street without a care in the world, smile at strangers and speak to shopkeepers without apprehension. For a while, after that horrible night on the river, I had doubted that I could ever recover. I thought my heart would never be young, my step never light again, but time is a wonderful healer, and now I could almost believe that none of it had ever happened.

Philip Mann had suspected Edward all along. He had seen Edward once in London with Maureen, weeks before Maureen met Clinton Mann, and when I went to Devonshire he was certain the heart of the mystery was at Lyon House. He had met Corinne Lyon years before, and when he saw her racing down the road on horseback, he had been suspicious. He had found out about her recent grave illness. The illness and the horseback rides did not seem to fit, nor did the fact that Corinne refused to see him. When Agatha Crandall visited him and dropped hints of the masquerade, he began to piece things together in his mind. He knew Maureen was an experienced actress, and he knew she and Edward could not leave England until the stones were turned into pounds. He bided his time, keeping a sharp watch over Lyon House and all activity around it.

Scotland Yard had refused to listen to his absurd theories, had not wanted to be bothered by the bunglings of an amateur detective, so Philip had been determined to get proof. He waited until Edward went to London to make negotiations with Herron, then stormed the offices of Scotland Yard and demanded they call on Herron. Reluctantly, they visited his quarters and, terrified, he had told them the whole story. There remained nothing left but to return to Devonshire, arrest all the culprits and recover the jewels which Edward still had in his possession.

While police officials were arresting Bart and Jerry, Philip Mann returned to Dower House. He knew something was wrong when he discovered the shutters loose in back, and he climbed in as I retreated through the front door. Finding my cloak in the front room, he hurried to Lyon House where a nervous maid informed him that no one was at home. He explored the grounds and found Maureen by the gazebo. Barely conscious, she pointed to the river. He rushed to the pier.

The nightmare ended. The fog lifted. With his strong arms around me I knew peace for the first time in weeks.

I returned to London. Mattie and Bill tried to make things pleasant at the boarding house. Laverne and the girls chattered brightly, bringing bits of gossip and trying to cheer me up, but I remained desolate. I was sick with worry about Maureen, and it was only when she came to see me that I began to feel better.

She had given evidence, signed statements and, after a long and unpleasant process of law, had been released. Philip Mann had furnished legal aid and had done everything possible himself to see that charges against her were dropped. Maureen came to tell me that she was leaving the country; she was going to France. An old friend of hers was manager of a small theatrical troupe that played the provinces, and she was going to join them.

I went to see her off.

She was standing on the deck of the boat the last time I saw her. A brisk breeze touseled her raven locks and they blew like soft black feathers across her face. It was a tragic face, the lines stamped with sadness, the enormous brown eyes turned inward on scenes of despair. She leaned on the railing. Her lips were turned up at the corners in a gentle smile. The smile faded as the boat began to pull away and she raised her hand in a last gesture of farewell. I felt that I would never see her again. She would go on to pursue her destiny. There would be a few postcards over the years but something more than space would always separate me from my sister.

Maureen had left three weeks ago. Now it was May. I was walking down the London street, feeling curiously light and gay. I would always carry some sadness in my heart after the experience at Lyon House, but now a world that had seemed forbidding and bleak suddenly seemed full of promise again. I hurried along in the dazzling sunlight as if I expected to behold a miracle at every corner.

I passed a flower cart heaped high with orange marigolds and yellow and white daisies. A little girl in a dark blue dress rolled a hoop down the sidewalk, her long brown pigtails bouncing on her shoulders. I was smiling, and there seemed to be no reason for it. It was the first time I had smiled like this in months.

I stopped to peer through the window of a bookseller's establishment. Through the dusty glass pane I could see stacks of leather bound volumes with gilt edges. Then the door of the shop opened and the bell above it jangled merrily. Philip Mann stepped out on the sidewalk. I stepped away from the window, startled.

He stared at me, frowning. Slowly he arched one dark brow, and a wicked grin spread on his face.

“This
is
a coincidence,” he said.

“I had no idea—” I began.

“Sure you weren't following me?” he taunted.

“I can assure you—”

“You're blushing,” he said wickedly. “That's a sign of guilt.”

I tossed my head, giving him a haughty look. I started to walk on down the street, but his fingers gripped my elbow tightly.

“Don't run away,” he said. “We've got a lot to talk about.”

“Really?” I inquired icily.

“A great deal,” he said.

“You haven't seemed to be in any great hurry to speak to me before now,” I said. “In fact, this is the first time I've seen you since I returned to London.”

“You've missed me?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I snapped. “I merely, wondered—”

The grin widened. He could read my thoughts. He knew that I had been pining to see him. He knew that I had rushed downstairs every time anyone knocked on the door. He knew I had secretly hoped to run into him today—every day. The possibility of just such an encounter as this had given each day an added sparkle, had urged me on with light step. Philip Mann sensed this, and it infuriated me.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I had a long talk with your Bill and Mattie last night. Charming people. They tell me you don't want to go back to the music hall to work. They tell me you're restless and undecided about the future—”

“What could that possibly matter to you?” I asked.

“My own future is pretty undecided, too,” he said. “I've just sold my father's business. I'm a wealthy man now. I'm thinking of buying a little place in the country—a place to go back to. I'm going to do a bit of traveling, knocking about this country and that with paint box, canvas and shabby old jacket. I've been in the book shop to buy maps. I'm leaving London next week.”

“Oh?” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“Yes. I've been worrying about your sketching—”

“My sketching?” I replied, puzzled.

“You still need quite a lot of instruction. Years and years of it, to be honest about it. To be even more honest, I need someone to keep my paint brushes clean and cheer me up when I'm in one of my rages. You would be hollered at quite a bit, perhaps even knocked about now and then.”

“Mr. Mann, are you asking me to
go
with you?” I said stiffly.

He nodded, his dark eyes never leaving mine.

“I've never been so insulted in my life,” I replied.

“Oh, my intentions are quite honorable,” he said quickly. “Your guardians were quite enthusiastic. I quite shamelessly set out to charm them, and a nice job I did of it, too. Mattie cried, and Bill, fine fellow that he is, slapped me on the back and offered me a cigar. They gave me their blessings and said it was all up to you.”

“Mr. Mann,” I replied in a cool voice, “if this is a joke—”