Wherever Lynn Goes (8 page)

“I don't know. Seventy, at least.”

“A seventy-year-old man commits a crime of passion and then kills himself in a fit of self-remorse? Really, Lynn, someone has to be joking.”

“Passion had nothing to do with it,” I said. “She was giving him a very hard time. Aunt Daphne could be extremely vicious. She probably drove the poor man to the point of desperation.”

“That's still not motive enough for such a brutal crime.”

“He was seen leaving the house that night.”

“I know.”

“The knife was at his side when they found him. What's more, his fingerprints were on it.”

“That doesn't prove a thing,” she said stubbornly.

“He went berserk, Mandy.”

“That's a very pat explanation. There's no real motive, so everyone simply assumes he went berserk. The police didn't really
investigate
, Lynn. They just accepted things at face value.”

Reluctantly, I had to admit that she was right. I tried to make light of all she had said, attributing it to her addiction to sensational fiction, but Mandy was an extremely intelligent person, and there was much food for thought in what she had said. Constable Plimpton was an amiable, easygoing chap, no doubt very popular with the villagers, but he hardly inspired confidence. What if they had made a mistake? What if the Colonel hadn't murdered her … Of course he did, I told myself firmly. It was absurd to think otherwise. Mandy could chatter all she liked, but one of us had to remain sensible.

“One other point,” she said.

“What's that?”

“The telephone call. That's what really bothers me. She was incoherent, hysterical. She said it was an emergency, that she had something to tell you. Lynn, if she was afraid for her life, why did she call
you?
Why didn't she phone the local police?”

“I don't know, Mandy. The—the call probably had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder.”

“Perhaps not.”

“I wish you wouldn't carry on like this.”

“I suppose I
do
read too many thrillers,” she said lightly. “It probably happened just the way they say it did. I certainly hope so. I wouldn't want to think the murderer was still roaming around, not if we intend to stay way off out here.” She glanced through the windshield at the thick, leafy trees, their trunks almost hidden by underbrush. “We
are
going to be isolated, aren't we?”

“Very,” I said cheerily.

“So many trees—”

“Would you like to turn back?”

“Of course not.”

“We could always take rooms at the inn.”

“I wouldn't think of it, pet. I'm dying to see the house. Is it really as dark and gloomy as you've described it?”

“It was thirteen years ago. By this time it should be in even worse condition.”

“Marvelous. There'll probably still be bloodstains in the hall, too. Do hurry, Lynn. I can hardly wait …”

CHAPTER FIVE

The house was exactly as I remembered it, only more weathered from thirteen additional years of exposure to sun and damp night air and seasonal storms. Built shortly before the turn of the century, it had all the architectural indulgences of that era, and none of the virtues. Five ornamental gables reared up for no purpose, and the spacious veranda was festooned with Victorian gingerbread woodwork. The house, once white, was now a dismal gray, and the multi-level slate roof was more bronze than green. The drive led around the right side to the carriage house in back, which was in slightly better condition. The lower half had been converted into a modern garage, and an outside wooden staircase led to rooms above it.

I parked the car in front, and Mandy and I climbed out. She seemed enchanted with the place, while admitting that she expected bats to come swooping out of the windows. As we stood there looking up at the house, a distant roll of thunder sounded ominously. The sky, so vividly blue before, was growing darker as gray clouds began to congregate.

“It's got atmosphere,” Mandy said, “definitely. It looks like a setting for an old-fashioned horror movie. I do hope there's a damp, shadowy old cellar.”

“There is,” I assured her. “Attics, too. Are you sure you want to stay here, Mandy?”

“Of course. I think it's ever so exciting, luv. I've never been in a house where a murder was committed. There's a flash of lightning. It's going to storm. Perfect.”

“We don't
have
to stay here, you know.”

“I know.”

Although she spoke in a light, merry voice, I could see that she had reservations. The house was indeed desolate-looking, and what had happened here just a few days ago made it seem all the more forbidding. It had been sheer folly to come, I realized, but for some perverse reason I was reluctant to go back to the village. That would have been an admission of defeat.

Another rumble of thunder sounded as we moved up the worn wooden steps and onto the shadowy veranda. The floor creaked alarmingly, and there was the sour smell of mildew and decay. The veranda ran around all four sides of the house, with French windows opening onto it. A tarnished brass knocker was attached to the center of the wide, dark oak door. I suddenly realized that I didn't have a key. Mandy solved that problem by turning the brass doorknob and pushing the door open. It swung inward with much groaning of its hinges. As we stepped into the hall, I wondered why the door hadn't been locked.

Enough light streamed through the front windows to reveal the dark parquet floor, the mahogany wainscoting and hideous William Morris wallpaper of brown, orange, and maroon swirls. A chandelier with a blue and red glass shade hung from the high ceiling, and along the right wall the dark staircase with its shabby maroon carpet rose up into shadows. A narrow hall beside the stairs led back into the kitchen regions. I stared at the huge grandfather clock, the heavily carved table, the wingback chairs, one purple, one maroon, both faded. How well I remembered the curtains of heavy burnt-orange velvet looped back on either side of the archways leading into adjoining rooms, the dusty green plants in their Oriental brass planters, the general impression of gloom.

“Cozy,” Mandy said blithely. “The table's Jacobean, by the way, and worth a fortune. So is the chandelier. Cecil would go wild.” Cecil was an antiques dealer who had an exclusive, frightfully expensive shop in London. Mandy ran her finger along the highly varnished table top. Both of us were tense, though Mandy was trying her best to hide it.

“The house is full of old furniture and Victorian knick-knacks,” I remarked in a conversational tone. “There's even a glass case in the sitting room filled with stuffed birds—”

I cut myself short. Mandy was staring at the rusty brown stains near the foot of the staircase. I stared at them too, unable to look away. They were barely discernible against the dark wood, but they were unmistakable. Mandy's cheeks were slightly pale, and I felt suddenly cold. The house seemed to engulf us, walls pressing closer. The grandfather clock ticked with a steady, monotonous rhythm. We both started as the floorboards on the veranda groaned loudly. Mandy seized my hand. We stared at the open door in horrified fascination.

Someone was walking along the veranda. There could be no mistake about it: The footsteps were loud and clear. Whoever it was was making no effort to be stealthy. He was whistling a merry little tune, and the sound was jarring here in the dim hall. He paused a moment, then stepped into the doorway. The light was behind him, making him no more than a dark silhouette. Mandy's hand was crushing mine, and I felt as though my heart had stopped beating.

“Hello, Lynn,” he said in a rich, jovial voice. “It's been a long time, what?”

“Who—who are you?” My own voice was trembling.

“Surely you're not frightened? I know you had an aversion to me when you were a child, but you're a big girl now. I'm actually a rather genial chap. I don't chase girls through the woods any more, I promise.” He gave a soft chuckle. “That hasn't been necessary for years and years.”

He leaned over and flipped a switch. The chandelier streamed down rays of light that banished the shadows. The man was tall, with a lean, powerful build and unusually wide shoulders. He wore scuffed tennis shoes, black denim trousers, and a loose navy blue jersey with the sleeves shoved up over his elbows. His dark hair was disheveled, tumbling over a tanned forehead, and the full mouth curled amiably at one corner. His eyes were a deep, deep blue, his dark brows oddly slanted, giving him a wry, quizzical look. I remembered that face all too well, but I didn't remember its being quite so devastatingly handsome.

“Remember me?” he inquired.

“I certainly do,” I said coldly.

“Is he the one who—” Mandy began.

“He's the one,” I told her.

“Bartholomew Cooper, ladies, at your service.”

“Bartholomew,” Mandy said. “Surely not?”

“My friends call me Bart,” he added.

“I'm Amanda Hunt. You seem to know Lynn.”

“That I do.”

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I happen to live here. Over the carriage house, actually. Your aunt was kind enough to rent me the rooms. I'm paid up until the middle of May, and I saw no real reason to leave. You plan to throw me out?”

“I certainly do.”

“My, you
do
hold a grudge, don't you? Yours is a most uncharitable attitude, I must say. After all I've done.”

“What have you done, Mr. Cooper?”

“Bart. We're going to be friends. What have I done? For one thing, I've been a marvelous watchdog, running off hordes of teen-agers and curiosity seekers determined to see the scene of the crime and carry off a souvenir or two. For another, when I found out you intended to stay here, I had a crew of women come in and give the place a good cleaning—it still looks like hell, but at least the cobwebs are gone. I also drove to the village and bought a fresh supply of groceries.”

“How very generous of you,” I said dryly.

“Oh, I made a complete list of my expenditures. I expect to be reimbursed to the penny.”

“You will be,” I retorted. “How did you know I was coming?”

“Everyone did. Word gets around in a place like Cooper's Green. Duncan and Hampton hadn't been back fifteen minutes before the whole village knew. Hampton told his secretary, who told her best friend, who told her sister, who happens to run the local telephone exchange. You know how it goes. Hard to keep anything a secret in these parts.”

“Something puzzles me, Mr. Cooper.”

“What's that?”

“
Why
are you living in the carriage house? Aren't you the son of—”

“The second son, alas,” he said with mock sadness. “When my dear dad passed on, he left the estate to my brother, Edgar. Rather unsporting of him, I thought, but then, Edgar is level-headed and industrious and solemn, and I've always been something of a black sheep. I needed a place to stay, and the village was too noisy and nosy, so I rented the rooms from Daphne. She was delighted to get the extra money every month. Edgar, I might add, was utterly horrified, though I think he was secretly relieved that I didn't intend to hang around the big house and scandalize the servants.”

“That gorgeous home we passed?” Mandy asked.

“Cooper House,” he told her. “Great barn of a place, actually. Impossible to heat properly. Really, Lynn, I wish you'd reconsider. I can be of great service. Besides, I should think you'd feel safer with a man about the place.”

“He has a point,” Mandy said.

I was forced to agree with her. After seeing the house in all its decaying gloom, I would feel much safer knowing there was a man around, even one as audacious as Bartholomew Cooper, but I had no intention of letting him know that. I didn't like his chummy familiarity, nor the way he stood there with his hands thrust into his pockets as though he owned the place. He had a breezy charm, true, and a raffish, amiable manner most women would find disarming, but I was, fortunately, immune. I remembered the way he had pursued me through the woods, waving his wooden sword. He hadn't changed all that much, I thought. With his tumbling raven locks, those comically slanting brows and that wide, curling mouth, he still had that devilish look. The deep blue eyes were decidedly sexy, I noticed, irritated at myself.

“What's the verdict?” he asked.

“I—I don't suppose it would do any harm for you to stay on for a few days until I decide what I'm going to do with the house.”

“Ripping,” he said.

“Understand, you'll stay out of the way.”

He grinned, one brow arching. “Worried I might try to revive some of our childhood games?”

“I'm not amused, Mr. Cooper.”

“Bart. I told you, I don't chase girls through the woods any more, not unless they're thoroughly amenable to the idea. Quite a few are. You'd be surprised.”

“I doubt that,” I said crisply.

Bartholomew Cooper brought out all my worst qualities. He made me feel stiff and prudish, which I certainly wasn't. I was on the defensive with him, and I sensed I would always have to keep my guard up. He was obviously accustomed to having women melt into his arms any time he cared to snap his fingers. It was plain to see that women had spoiled him deplorably, and I could understand why Aunt Daphne had taken a fancy to him. She would have found his flippant, irreverent manner utterly delightful. I found it outrageous.

“I had the women get your room ready,” he said affably, “the one you stayed in as a child. I took it for granted you'd want that one. The guest bedroom next to it has fresh linen too.”

“You took quite a lot for granted, didn't you?”

“Just trying to make myself useful,” he replied. “Daphne talked about you quite a lot when she was in her cups, you know. The old girl didn't approve of your life in the wicked city. Mini-skirts. Lipstick. Parties. She left the impression you were something of a swinger.”