Wherever Lynn Goes (11 page)

“I wish you were at the inn,” he said grimly.

“We'll be perfectly all right,” Mandy assured him. “It was ever so thoughtful of you to come all the way out here and check up. We appreciate it
hugely.
”

“We certainly do,” I added.

“No trouble at all. Uh … you won't forget the rehearsal, will you?”

“Of course not.”

“The group'll appreciate it, a real actress poppin' in. Maybe you can give us a few pointers.”

“Maybe I can.”

“Well … uh … I'd best be shoving off. Take care.”

He moved down the steps, mounted his bicycle, and pedaled off into the darkness. Mandy was smiling pensively as we went back inside.

“You must have had quite a long chat,” I remarked.

“We did. I promised to get to the theater and watch the dress rehearsal. I can hardly
wait
to see him in eighteenth-century breeches and satin jacket. Isn't he adorable? But so
proper
. I felt sure he'd make a pass as we were moving down all those dark halls, but no such luck.”

“I thought you weren't interested. I seem to remember some remark about all these men being tiresome.”

“Did I say that?”

I nodded.

“Well, Douglas is different. He has a quality—a fascinating combination of smoldering masculinity and little-boy shyness. He's a primitive, unspoiled. I'm
so
tired of worldly, sophisticated males—”

“You're hopeless, Mandy.”

“What a
wicked
thing to say! Oh dear, there go the lights again. We'd better turn these down here off and go on upstairs. Listen to the thunder. It sounds like someone's blowing up a bridge.”

I locked the front door and pushed the brass bolt into place. We turned off the downstairs lights and started upstairs. The hall lights flickered alarmingly as we moved toward our bedrooms.

We stopped in front of Mandy's door. “Did Lloyd have anything interesting to report?” she asked.

“Not really. He—he seemed worried.”

“Because we're here?”

“He isn't satisfied with the police report. He seems to think—well, let's just say …” I hesitated, frowning.

“He thinks the murderer might still be loose.” Mandy finished the sentence for me.

“Something like that. Mandy,
you're
not nervous, are you?”

“Nervous?
Me?
Don't be silly.” Her voice was light and reassuringly gay, but I noted a slight tremor.

“The house is so quiet—” I began.

“And all the doors and windows are securely locked,” she said firmly, “and husky young Mr. Cooper is sleeping in the carriage house, a stone's throw away. There's not the slightest reason to be alarmed.”

“Not the slightest,” I agreed.

“Just the same, I wish I hadn't read so many bloody thrillers. That last Brad Carter—most upsetting. Tell you what, luv, let's leave the hall lights burning. Not that we
need
to, but …”

“Fine,” I said, relieved.

“'Night, luv. See you in the morning.”

As I went into my bedroom, I told myself that I was simply tired, bone tired, that was all. If my nerves were acting up, it was only to be expected. The house
was
large, and dark, and Aunt Daphne had been murdered just a short time ago …

I began to prepare for bed, slipping into a pair of beige cotton pajamas and taking out my beige robe printed with tiny pink roses, draping it over a chair, setting out my slippers so that everything would be handy when I got up in the morning. When I finally climbed into bed, I felt much better, all apprehension firmly banished.

Darkness flooded the room when I turned off the lamp. Closing my eyes, I sank into the feathery mattress, willing myself to sleep.

I was a child, roaming through the woods, examining the lichen on tree trunks, climbing up to peer at bird nests, delighted with my rustling brown and green world, happy to be away from the house. As I passed the old mill ruin, he came charging out, shouting lustily, his eyes aglow with savage mischief. I screamed. I ran. He pursued me. Strong arms grabbed me, one wrapping around my throat, the other around my waist, and he was laughing that devilish laugh. I struggled. He whirled me around, clutching me against his chest, and I looked up into his eyes, and suddenly I was an adult, and he was an adult, too, and that mischief was still in his eyes. He was holding me tightly, and I was no longer struggling. His lips moved seductively, and he lowered his head … I opened my eyes and, for a second, seemed to be suspended. Then I saw the moonlight shining on the ceiling and knew I had been dreaming. Those arms, the sensual lips parting as he bent to kiss me … An absurd dream, but disturbing nonetheless.

I slept again, and later, much later, I seemed to be standing outside. I saw the veranda spread with shadows, a darker shadow moving stealthily toward one of the French windows. I watched, my throat dry, my heart pounding. Who was he? What was he doing there? I tried to cry out, but no sound would come. He stood in front of the window, peering in. He tapped against the glass. The noise was distinct, ringing sharp and clear. I heard a loud rattle, a crash … I sat up with a start, tense, completely awake.

For perhaps a moment I was utterly paralyzed, unable to move a muscle, fear gripping me like a tangible being. My throat was still dry, my heart still pounding. I listened, straining to hear. The noises came almost immediately: the floor downstairs creaking, footsteps, the sound of someone stumbling, then silence, total silence. Each second seemed to stretch out, prolonged. I reached for the lamp and pressed the switch, but the light failed to come on. I pressed again, in vain. Obviously, the lines were down. I remembered a deafening clap and blinding flash right before I dropped off to sleep. Lightning had probably struck one of the poles.

“Lovely,” I said irritably.

Faintly, through the darkness, I could see the bulk of the wardrobe and a dull silver blur on top of it: the old candelabrum. There were still stubs of candles in the three holders, and if I was lucky the matches would still be hidden in the bottom drawer. Climbing out of bed, I crossed the room and fumbled in the drawer, feeling for the matches. A sharp smell of sulfur assailed the air as I struck one. A bright yellow flame flared, sizzling, going out almost immediately. I dropped it, struck another. By the time I finally had the candles burning, the floor was littered with half a dozen charred matchsticks.

The candles spluttered, and the flames leaped wildly. Holding the candelabrum aloft in one hand, I opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hall.

It was icy cold and pitch black, and although the candles made a wavering circle of light around me, they only heightened the darkness beyond. As I stood in front of the door, my calm and resolution vanished. I peered into the darkness, listening, and when I heard footsteps approaching I almost fainted.

“So it woke you up, too,” Mandy said in a flat voice.

“Mandy! You—you startled me.”

“I was just on my way to your room.”

“I had a nightmare. It woke me up.”

“It wasn't a nightmare, luv. Someone broke into the house. I think we'd better go rouse Bartholomew,” she said.

Her voice was calm, her face expressionless. In a crisis Mandy was cool and level-headed, far better able to cope than I. She had proved this several times in the past. I felt panic stealing over me as I watched the shadows cascading down the walls, but Mandy was unmoved. She wore a short white nightgown and belted negligee that left her shapely legs bare and a pair of fluffy white mules.

“Shall we?” she said. “Neither of us is going to be able to sleep until we make sure no one's in the house. Right?”

“I suppose so,” I said feebly.

“The lights, of course, are out.”

“I think the lines are down. The lamp wouldn't—”

“Give me the candelabrum. Your hand's trembling.”

She took it and, squaring her shoulders, started down the hall. I followed close behind. The candle flames danced and darted, spluttering loudly. We paused at the top of the stairs, peering down into the darkness. Although her face was still expressionless, I could tell that Mandy was as unenthusiastic about going down as I was.

She glanced at me, eyes level, then shrugged her shoulders and began to descend. It took us perhaps a minute to reach the hall and get to the front door. It was the longest, most terrifying sixty seconds I'd ever lived through.

While Mandy held the candelabrum up high, I fumbled with the bolt, my hands shaking violently.

“You might
hurry
, dear,” Mandy suggested.

“I can't seem to—there! I was turning it the wrong way.”

Finally, I pushed the bolt back and flung the door open. A violent gust of wind swept in, blowing out the candles. We hurried across the dark veranda, down the steps and out into the night. Although the moon had already gone down, a faint light bathed the walls of the carriage house, vaguely illuminating the stone steps leading to the rooms above. We hurried up them. I knocked on the door for at least a minute.

“I thought he was a light sleeper,” I said bitterly.

“Pound, dear.”

I pounded, banging my fist against the door until my knuckles hurt. There was a loud crash within, an even louder curse shouted lustily in the darkness. Then we heard him stumbling across the floor. He must have tripped. A heavy body thudded against the door, a string of highly colorful expletives following. Then the door opened halfway, and Bartholomew Cooper poked his head out.

“What in the
hell
—”

“Someone broke into the house,” I said calmly.

“Huh?” His voice was thick and drowsy.

“Both of us heard it.”

“Christ! Can't a man get—”

“Are you awake?” Mandy inquired.

“Some watchdog!” I snapped.

“Look, what's this all about!”

“We think someone broke into the house,” Mandy told him.

“Well, why didn't you
say
so!”

“It's rather chilly out here, pet. Mind if we come in?”

“There's no light,” he said, holding the door open.

We stepped into the darkened room. I promptly stumbled over a rug, and would have fallen had I not knocked against Bartholomew Cooper. He grunted in surprise and flung his arms around me, tottering backward. Both of us swayed until he managed to steady himself. Muttering, he released me, and I stepped away hastily.

“Have you got any matches?” Mandy asked.

“I have a box in my pocket,” I said, glad I had thought to keep them with me.

I gave them to Mandy. She lighted the candles efficiently, and warm golden light illuminated a large, cluttered room. There was a studio bed with tangled blankets and sheets, a desk with an ancient typewriter, piles of books, and assorted furniture that had once been in the big house, most of it chipped and battered. One chair had been knocked over, and the bedside lamp was on the floor, the shade sadly crumpled.

Bartholomew Cooper wore a pair of rumpled tan silk pajamas that must have been at least two sizes too large. His face was still flushed with sleep, his hair wildly unruly. Shaking his head, he looked at us.

“Now, what's all this about someone breaking in?”

“It happened not more than ten minutes ago,” Mandy said. “Lynn and I were both awakened.”

“
I
didn't hear anything.”

“I'm not surprised, luv. Judging from the time it took us to wake you up, you wouldn't have heard an elephant stampede.”

“I suppose you want me to check the house out.”

“That was the general idea.”

He strode across the room on his bare feet, opened the closet door, and pulled out a rather disreputable brown woolen robe. He put it on over his pajamas and began to look around the room for his slippers, finally locating them under the edge of an overstuffed green chair. They were badly scuffed, the brown leather cracked. Sartorial elegance obviously meant very little to Mr. Cooper. Grunting irritably, he marched over to the desk, jerked open a drawer, and pulled out a long metal flashlight.

“Ready?” Mandy asked.

“Yeah … uh … just a minute.”

We waited patiently while he returned to the closet and poked around among the clothes. A box tumbled down from the shelf, landing on his head. He let out another colorful expletive and, a second later, turned around, clutching a long wooden object.

“What's that, luv?”

“A cricket bat.” His voice was grumpy. “If I'm going to go searching a dark house for intruders, I plan to be prepared.”

“Perhaps we should phone Sergeant Duncan,” I told Mandy. “He said we should if—”

“I can manage!” he thundered. “Come along!”

Switching on the flashlight, he stormed out the door, Mandy and I following with considerably less drama. He stopped at the front steps, flashing the light along the length of the veranda. “No one out here. I don't see any signs of an intruder.”

“You think we made it up?” I asked acidly.

“Shut up!” he barked. “Shall we go in?”

“Let's,” Mandy said.

I suggested we start upstairs and work down. Bart agreed. The flashlight made a pool of light on the stairs as he started up. Mandy and I weren't far behind, neither of us particularly eager to be left alone in the shadowy darkness of the hall. We went through room after room upstairs, Bart leading the way, cricket bat in one hand, flashlight in the other. He was very thorough, peering behind doors, looking in closets, even lifting the counterpanes to make certain no one was under any of the beds.

“No one up there.” He sounded disappointed. “You
sure
you heard someone breaking in?”

“We heard
something,
” Mandy informed him.

“Could have been the wind, or thunder.”

“I suppose it could have been,” she agreed. “Shall we go through the rooms downstairs?”