Wherever Lynn Goes (18 page)

It was just as well I realized it. I could cope with it much better now. He was thoroughly impossible, and I was in love with Lloyd, but at least I could be polite and friendly to him in the future. I had been stiff, prickly, constantly on guard, and now that I knew the reason I could laugh at myself and treat him like I would treat anyone else. I wasn't querulous by nature. Bart had brought out all the worst qualities in me, and I finally understood why. I would apologize to him as soon as I had the opportunity.

I stood up wearily. My mouth felt bruised, and the back of my legs were sore where they had hit the settee. Glancing at the clock, I saw that I was going to be late meeting Cassie. I went outside, moving down the steps and following one of the gray flagstone paths that wound through the gardens. I passed the untidy beds of bluebells and walked under one of the old white wicker trellises weighted down with honeysuckle, still thinking about that scene in the parlor. “I love you, you bloody fool.” That was nonsense, of course. He just said that for effect. I was attractive, and he was very male. He wanted to go to bed with me. He wasn't the first man who felt that way and, God willing, he wouldn't be the last. Love had absolutely nothing to do with it.

I couldn't blame Bart for the will. It was so like Aunt Daphne to do something like that. She was hasty, impulsive, unthinking. He had probably performed some little service for her—mending a lamp, perhaps, or putting new hinges on a door, or maybe he had just listened to her talk, making her feel important—and on the spur of the moment she had decided to reward him. Not openly. Aunt Daphne deplored sentiment. She would leave him all her property and, at the same time, show me just what she thought of my conduct in London. Perhaps she had deliberately quarreled with Hampton, knowing he might question the wisdom of such a will, leaving her free to go to Brumley. Once the will was made, there was no reason to maintain the feud with Hampton. It was illogical, but then, Aunt Daphne had never done anything like anyone else. Wildly eccentric, she had gone her own way, thumbing her nose at logic and convention. Bart
had
been incredulous. If anything, he had been even more surprised than I was.

Reaching the low, gray stone wall, I scrambled over, exactly as I had done so many hundreds of times in the past. In the woods, surrounded by trees and shrubbery, I followed the narrow, well-worn path I knew so well. These woods had been my sanctuary when I was a child, my hiding place from the world, my secret kingdom which had been so cruelly invaded by the tan, slender boy who felt they were
his
domain, his pirate's nest, his Indian haunts, his Tarzan jungle. I knew every tree, every shrub. In the distance I could hear the rushing sound of the river, but the noise was drowned out by the stiff crackle of twigs, the scurrying of small creatures, the wind sweeping through the treetops.

I stopped abruptly, listening.

Something was wrong. I could feel it, sense it in the atmosphere. I was completely attuned to these woods, thoroughly familiar with every sound, every smell. I knew instinctively that something was not as it should have been. The noise. There had been something … footsteps. Someone else was here. Someone was following me. As I stood there, tense, every nerve alert, I could feel someone watching me. The sensation was almost tangible, like touch. I peered down the dim, green and brown pathways between tree trunks, so thick with shadow, but I could see no one. Still, the aura was there, as real as scent, and as impossible to define. My knees seemed to go weak. My throat was dry.

Unreasonably, I kept thinking of Myrtle's tale of the mysterious man with brutish features and large hands. If … if Colonel March
had
been innocent, as so many believed, then my aunt's murderer was still free. He might still be in the vicinity. He might have broken into the house last night, looking for something. He might … I forced myself to put these thoughts aside, knowing it was pure folly to indulge in them. I mustn't think such things—not now, not here.

A twig snapped loudly. Down one of the pathways a clump of shrubbery trembled, leaves rustling with a noisy crackle. There was the faint, almost inaudible sound of stealthy footsteps creeping away, then silence. I stood very, very still, my heart beating rapidly. Overhead, a bird called out with shrill vibrato, a normal, reassuring sound. A small animal scurried through the brush. I managed to get hold of myself. I had been nervous, keyed up, and my imagination had played tricks on me. No one had been watching me. No one had followed me into the woods. My own alarm had created the sinister atmosphere. I took a deep breath, relaxing, scolding myself, yet as I continued on my way to the mill I still felt a vague uneasiness. Once or twice I thought I heard footsteps behind me, but I realized it was nothing but an echo of my own footsteps, curiously distorted here in the thickness of trees and underbrush. Nevertheless, I wished Cassie had chosen someplace else for our meeting. The woods were no longer a friendly haven—perhaps because I was no longer a child.

Following the riverbank now, I stepped over wet roots and large, mossy stones. I might have been in a primeval forest, completely away from civilization, and that feeling did little to reassure me. I paused now and then, glancing over my shoulder. I wasn't really apprehensive, but I had had a fright, and the uneasiness persisted. I was relieved to see the old mill up ahead.

It sat on the other side of the river, almost completely surrounded by trees, reached by an old stone bridge that arched over the water. It was a total ruin. The wheel was rotten, several paddles fallen away, and one whole brown stone wall had crumbled. The roof, though still intact, sagged dangerously, half the slate shingles missing. When I was a child it had been one of my favorite places, endowed with romance, my own private castle, but it didn't look romantic now. It looked forbidding, with piles of debris and dark, panelesss windows. Hesitantly I crossed the bridge, stepping over rubble and standing there in the weed-infested yard.

“Cassie?” I called.

There was no answer. For a moment I thought she hadn't shown up, and then I heard someone moving inside. She appeared at one of the windows, her face drawn and pale. Without saying a word, she motioned for me to come inside. I stepped through the dark, gaping doorway, the door long since missing, and almost stumbled on the rough, buckled wooden flooring.

“I thought you weren't comin',” Cassie said in a low voice. “I've been here for almost half an hour.”

“I'm sorry, Cassie.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

I shook my head. “Of course not.”

“Did—did anyone see you leave—follow you?”

“I don't think so.”

“You're not
sure?
”

“I—I thought I heard someone in the woods, but it must have been my imagination. I couldn't see anyone.”

Cassie stepped over to one of the windows and peered out, watching the bridge for several minutes. Silhouetted against the light, she looked even younger and extremely frail. Most of the make-up was gone now, and she wore a short blue skirt and blue and brown striped blouse, scuffed loafers taking the place of the tottering high heels. Although the cheap perfume still clung to her, there was no smell of liquor now. She was quite sober, her eyes deep and solemn.

“No one followed me, Cassie,” I said quietly. “I was—rather upset over something that happened earlier. I imagined the noise.”

“He might be out there,” she said, peering through the window, her back to me.

“Who?”

“The man who murdered Colonel March.”

Her voice was flat, unemotional. She turned around to face me. It was extremely dim here inside the mill, but I could see her clearly, see the hard expression on her young face. Behind me the branches rustled, and the sound of the river was very loud. Cassie came closer, leaving the window. She didn't seem frightened now, merely resigned.

“I was drunk this afternoon,” she said. “I—I shouldn't have called you over like that, not in my condition, but I had to speak to you, Miss Morgan. I can't keep this to myself any longer. I guess—I guess I was pretty incoherent there in the square. I was terrified someone might see us together. If—if I hadn't been drunk I wouldn't have had the nerve—”

“Tell me what you know, Cassie.” My own voice was surprisingly unemotional as well. I wondered why I should be so calm.

“That night, the night your aunt was murdered, I was coming home from the pub and I saw him clearly. He—earlier on I saw this car parked at the side of the road, under some trees. I wouldn't have noticed it, only I stumbled and dropped my bag. When I bent down to pick it up I saw the moonlight shining on the fender. I thought it was funny, that car parked way off out there where no one could see it. I peeked inside. It was empty. I went on down the road—the back road that leads to the cottages …”

“Go on, Cassie.”

“I want to be sure I get everything right. I want to be sure I don't forget any of the details. The—maybe the police'll believe you. They'd think I was lyin', tryin' to stir up trouble. I couldn't talk to them. He—he might have found out about it. When they questioned me, I lied. They questioned everybody in the cottages after they found his body that night, but I didn't tell them anything. I was afraid he might—”

With great effort, she controlled the tremor in her voice. Stepping over to the fallen wall, she stared at the dusty, crumbling stones. One of the pale rays of sunlight slanted across the place where she stood, like a dim, hazy spotlight picking her out. Her figure didn't appear nearly so voluptuous in the plain skirt and blouse. She looked perhaps fourteen, her shoulders hunched, her arms folded about her waist.

“I heard the shot,” she continued, calm now. “I thought how peculiar it was—it was after midnight, you see. Why should anyone be huntin' that late at night? I was walkin' on the side of the road, in the shadows, and I was just a few yards from Colonel March's cottage when I saw that man come out the front door. Quick-like, I darted behind a tree. I watched him open the gate. He passed right by me, not more than three feet away. My heart was beatin' somethin' awful. I thought I was goin' to faint.”

“What did he look like, Cassie?”

“Big. He was wearin' an overcoat, dark and heavy, and a hat with the brim pulled down, but I saw his face in the moonlight. It was ugly—all battered-lookin'. He walked on down the road, keepin' to the shadows, and I sobbed—he might have heard me. He turned around. He might have seen me, I don't know—I ran.”

I should have been weak, filled with a sense of horror, but I had no reaction at all. Perhaps I was just numb. I stared at the girl, at the damp, mildewed walls of the mill, at the warped floor with its litter of rusty cans and wrappers left by someone long ago. I smelled the rotting wood, the damp stones, the acrid odor of bat droppings, and I heard a bird cry out with a shrill, scolding note. None of it seemed quite real.

“I ran home as fast as I could. I locked all the doors. Puggie was upset. He was restless, whinin', like he knew somethin' was wrong. Later on I heard cars and the excited voices. They'd found his body. The police knocked on my door. They came in, asked me a lot of questions, asked me if I'd seen anything or heard any noises. Constable Plimpton was polite, I guess, but that Sergeant Duncan kept prowlin' around the room. He picked up my things, examinin' them with a look of disapproval. He opened up the closet door, snoopin', all the time Constable Plimpton was questionin' me. I should have told 'em then, but—I was so frightened.”

“I understand Cassie.”

“Finally, Constable Plimpton told Sergeant Duncan it was obvious Colonel March had killed himself and it was obvious why he'd done it. They left. The next mornin' I got all the details from one of my friends. He said Colonel March had stabbed your aunt to death and then came home and shot himself. The knife he'd done it with was at his side when they found him. I—I knew it wasn't so.”

The peculiar sense of numbness remained. It was rather like the sensation I had experienced at the funeral: a remoteness, a sense of being apart and viewing all this with objectivity. I had every cause to believe Cassie's story. Her terror was quite genuine, and there was no earthly reason why she should have made any of this up. She wasn't a gossip, like Myrtle, and Myrtle's story corroborated Cassie's narrative. Both had described the same man. Both had mentioned a car half hidden under trees. There was no longer any doubt in my mind. Colonel March was innocent of my aunt's murder. He had been murdered himself.

“Would you recognize the man if you saw him again?” I asked quietly.

Cassie nodded, her short golden curls bouncing. “I'll never be able to forget that face.”

“I'll have to tell the police, Cassie. You realize that?”

“I know. I—I'll probably get into trouble for not sayin' anything before. I—I was just—”

Both of us heard the noise at the same time. Cassie gave a start, her face turning even paler. It had sounded like someone stumbling over the rubble outside. Quickly, without thinking, I ran to the door. The yard was empty, but a clump of shrubbery nearby was trembling violently, as though someone had just brushed past it. The wind caught my hair, whipping it about my face, and I saw that all the shrubbery was trembling. A brisk wind had suddenly sprung up. It had probably blown one of the rusty cans across the yard, and that was what we had heard.

Cassie was standing in the doorway, holding on to the frame.

“There's no one here,” I said.

My voice was firm, but I wasn't entirely convinced. Someone could have crossed the bridge quite easily without our hearing the footsteps over the sound of the river. Someone could have been standing near one of the windows, listening … I saw that Cassie was thinking the same thing. I tried to give her a reassuring smile.