Wherever Lynn Goes (9 page)

He was obviously baiting me. I didn't deign to reply. I wondered just what his relationship with Daphne had been. He was certainly familiar with the house. It didn't make sense that such a healthy young man would choose to live way off here, completely isolated, with only a boozy old woman for companionship.

“How long have you lived over the carriage house?” I asked.

“Over a year, off and on.”

“Off and on?”

“I spend a lot of time in London,” he explained. “Hate the place, I must say, but I keep a flat there out of necessity. When I'm not in London, I stay here.”

The answer was evasive, but I didn't pursue it. Mandy was standing with one hand resting lightly on her hip, studying Bartholomew Cooper with a puzzled expression in her eyes. Something was bothering her, I could tell. He had paid very little attention to her, but that wasn't it.

“Let's go on up, Lynn,” she said in a rather weary voice. “Look, luv, why don't you be a lamb and put those muscles to good use? Unload the car for us.”

“Glad to,” he replied.

I flipped the light switch by the staircase, and we started up. As we reached the landing, I turned to look back. Bartholomew Cooper was watching us with an infuriating grin. In the tight black trousers and navy blue jersey, he looked like a robust college lad just coming in after a rousing game of soccer. He definitely needed a haircut, and those scuffed tennis shoes were preposterous for a man his age. He nodded at me impudently, one brow crooked.

I took Mandy's hand and led her down the dim hall.

“What do you think of him?” I asked.

“A most enigmatic young man,” she replied.

“That's for sure.”

“I've seen him somewhere before, Lynn.”

“Where?”

“I can't remember. It—that face. I've seen it before in connection with something vaguely sinister. Like … well, like a movie actor who's played a gangster, only of course he hasn't The minute I saw him, I knew that face was familiar.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Those eyebrows. I wish I could … oh well, it'll come to me eventually.”

“Maybe I should have—”

“Thrown him out?” she interrupted. “Not at all. I'm rather relieved he's here, if you want to know the truth. This place is definitely Hitchcock, like that house in
Psycho
. I may have my doubts about Mr. Cooper, but he
is
a healthy specimen. A most effective watchdog, I'd say.”

“I don't trust him.”

“No?”

“His being here doesn't make sense.”

“He explained that,” Mandy said airily.

“Not to my satisfaction.”

“Not to mine either, actually, but then, perhaps we don't know the full story. He might have perfectly logical reasons for wanting isolation while he's in Cooper's Green. He might be writing a book, or—”

“Fat chance,” I said acidly.

“Anyway, I'm sure we'll find out more about him. He's rather intriguing.”

“That's hardly the word I'd use.”

“I know, luv, but then, you're prejudiced.”

Mandy could be perfectly maddening at times.

My old bedroom was at the end of the hall, directly across from an enclosed staircase that led up to the attics and down to the back hall. I opened the door and reached for the light switch. Faint yellow light blossomed in the old-fashioned brass wall sconces. The light blue wallpaper with its lilac flowers and jade green leaves was a bit more faded, perhaps, and the polished hardwood floor was darker with age, but the Aubusson runner was just as I remembered it, as were the heavy antique furniture, the tattered blue silk bed canopy. A tarnished silver candelabrum stood on top of the wardrobe, stubs of candles still in its holders. I used to read by candlelight, because Aunt Daphne, ranting about wasting electricity, ordered lights out at eight sharp. A bay window with a window seat covered in lilac velvet looked out over the herb gardens in back of the house. A bookcase stood to one side, crammed with worn, much-read children's books.

I felt an odd sensation, something like nostalgia but with none of the wistfulness, none of the pleasant associations. The skinny little girl with her long braids and enormous eyes who had lived in this room was a stranger to me now, separated by many years. Lonely, restless, fiercely individual, she had been a pensive creature, longing for wider horizons, longing to be noticed by an indifferent world. I wondered how much of her still remained in the woman.

“You look like you've just seen a ghost,” Mandy said, breaking into my reverie.

“I think I have,” I said pensively.

“I'm not surprised,” she replied. “This house is undoubtedly full of them. Let's go see my room. I'm prepared for anything.”

“It's really not so bad …”

A door opened onto a large dressing room and bath that connected with the adjoining guest room. As we went through, Mandy admired the dark golden fixtures and rust-streaked white marble tub. The guest room was all done in yellow and ivory, musty yellow draperies over the windows, a yellow velvet chaise longue at the foot of the bed. The embossed ivory wallpaper was splitting at the seams. Bed, wardrobe, and dresser were of aged golden oak, the varnish peeling, and the large oval mirror was a murky blue. The room had been lovely once. Now it was funereal.

“Charming,” Mandy said lightly. “I already feel right at home.” She parted the drapes and threw open the windows.

“There's another bedroom on the other side of the house—”

“This will do nicely. Besides, I want to be within screaming range. I
do
wish the storm would break.”

A gust of cold, damp wind swirled into the room, causing the drapes to billow noisily. It was almost dark outside. Thunder still rumbled. A streak of lightning flashed with silver-blue fury, and the trees hurled violent black shadows over the ground. Mandy stood in front of the window, peering out, the wind blowing her long, tawny gold locks. She turned back around, framed by billowing yellow velvet drapes, a wry smile on her lips.

“Just one question,” she said.

“Yes?”

“What's a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?”

“Mandy, if you want to—”

“I think it's enchanting, pet. Really. Bela Lugosi would have loved it. Shall we go back down? Your friend Bartholomew has probably brought our things in by now, and I want to get into fresh clothes before the charming sergeant comes. You could use a change yourself. That dress is definitely past its prime.”

Our luggage was piled in the middle of the hall as we came downstairs, food basket, bag of oranges, and file boxes beside it. Bartholomew Cooper was coming through the door with the typewriter.

“Where does this go?” he inquired.

“In here,” I said, preceding him through a curtained arch that led into the library. “On the desk.” I pointed.

The room was filled with the musty odor of dust and glue, old leather and yellowing paper. I turned on one of the tall floor lamps as he set the typewriter in the center of the vast oak desk that dominated one corner of the room. Bookshelves loomed from floor to ceiling, and the large gray marble fireplace was soot-streaked. There was a long brown leather sofa and a matching leather chair, several low tables, a gold and brown globe on a tall brass stand. Faded Oriental rugs were scattered over the dark parquet floor, and uncurtained French windows opened onto the veranda.

“Why the typewriter?” he asked.

“I happen to write,” I said primly.

“Yeah, I've read a couple of your things. ‘What Every Girl Should Know About Nylon.' A painful experience for me, but then, I suppose the shopgirls eat it up.”

“Not that it's any of your business, but I've resigned from the Sunday Supplement. I'm doing a book.”

He arched one of those unusual brows, quizzical.

“On the court of Louis the Fourteenth,” I added, “for Philip Ashton-Croft, but then, you probably wouldn't know who he is.”

“Probably not,” he agreed.

“I'll need my files in here, too. Those mottled gray boxes.”

“At your service.”

Making a mock bow, he nodded and left the room. He returned a minute later with all three boxes, one stacked on top of another, his head and shoulders invisible. He moved rapidly, blindly, and I let out a little cry, seeing what was going to happen before he even stepped on the edge of the rug. As he put his foot down, the rug slid out from under him and he stumbled. He didn't fall, but the boxes did. Meticulously filed papers, folders, and clippings spilled over the floor like giant confetti, scattering in all directions. He looked down at the litter with abject blue eyes, then at me.

I didn't say a word. I didn't trust myself to speak. Without so much as looking at him, I began to pick up the papers and stack them on the desk, my lips tightly compressed, and after a moment he began helping me. In five minutes we had everything gathered up, the three empty boxes stacked beside the desk. It had taken Mandy and me over a week to get the files in proper order. Now everything was hopelessly jumbled. I was very, very calm, my anger under tight control. Bartholomew Cooper lounged against the desk and picked up one of the folders, examining the contents idly.

“Lauzun,” he said breezily. “Unfortunate chap, what? I always felt he got a rotten deal. All those years in prison, just because he happened to love the King's cousin. Must have been hellish for a lively fellow like him.”

“What would
you
know about it?”

“Nothing much,” he replied, tossing the folder back on the desk. “I remember Vita Sackville-West chatting about him. When I was thirteen or so, Dad dropped in to see Sir Harold at Sissinghurst Castle, took me along. She was writing her biography of La Grande Mademoiselle at the time, recommended a couple of books to me. Can't say I ever read them …”

Lightly, with total nonchalance, he had put me in my place, reminding me that he was, after all, an aristocrat. Born and raised at Cooper House, and probably able to trace his ancestors all the way back to Charlemagne, he had an immediate entree into realms I could never hope to inhabit, and could toss off great names with complete aplomb. He wasn't snobbish, but then, he didn't need to be. Social revolutions notwithstanding, an aura of glamor still clings to aristocracy, and Bartholomew Cooper was, by birth, one of the golden few, no matter how unimportant he might consider it.

“Anything else I can do?” He sounded exactly like a handyman eager to please his employer.

“You've done quite enough.”

“Guess I could put the car in the garage for you. You left the keys in the ignition. That's quite a car, by the way. Vintage Rolls. It belong to you?”

“It belongs to Brent Stevens. He lent it to us for the trip.”

“Brent Stevens? The television actor? You mean he's actually a friend of yours? Hey, that's pretty impressive.”

He was making fun of me, and I knew it. I
had
mentioned Brent's name to impress him, and it had backfired. He found it amusing. Shoulders hunched, humming under his breath, Bartholomew Cooper strolled out of the room. The room seemed desolate after he left, as though he had taken all life and vitality with him. He was definitely disturbing, as disturbing as he had been as a boy, and I couldn't quite understand my reactions. He was infuriating, of course, and yet there was something else, something that eluded me.

Mandy had already taken her bags upstairs. I carried the food basket and oranges down the narrow hall into the large, dark kitchen, setting them on the old zinc drain-board. Then I took my bags up to my bedroom. Outside the elements were raging, thunder crashing, streaks of lightning flashing continuously, yet the rain still hadn't come. The lights flickered, growing dimmer, brightening, dimming again. I hoped we wouldn't have an electrical failure. It had happened a number of times in the past, so a plentiful supply of candles was always in the hall chest. I unpacked my bags as Mandy bathed, and after she finished I took a quick bath myself, changing into a leaf-brown dress with a short, generously pleated skirt. As I sat brushing my hair, Mandy stepped into the room.

“I'm glad to see the plumbing works,” she said, “although the pipes make a rather alarming gurgle. What's wrong with the lights?”

“The storm,” I replied.

“Think they'll go out?”

“Possibly. It's happened before.”

“Dandy. Just what we need. Incidentally, what was that crash in the library as I was coming up?”

“The files. He dropped them.”

“Are they—”

“Hopelessly jumbled,” I said, putting down the brush and standing up with a weary expression.

“Oh well, it'll give us something to do in our spare time,” she said philosophically. “Are you ready to go down, luv? I'm starved. There should be plenty of food left in the basket.”

I turned on the lights in the kitchen. It was a large room. The stove and icebox dated back to the thirties. The dark brown linoleum was cracked, copper pans gleamed against yellow wallpaper stained with moisture, and huge varnished oak cupboards filled one wall. There was a rough stone fireplace, too, and deep blue canisters lined up along the zinc drainboard, cabinets above it. The room smelled of spices and smoke and apples, and it was cozy despite the lightning and thunder outside.

We had just sat down at the round, scarred wooden table when a key began to rattle in the back door, startling both of us. Bartholomew Cooper stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and looked at us with an amused expression.

“Hope I didn't alarm you,” he said airily.

“
What
are you doing here?”

“I have kitchen privileges. Didn't I tell you? There's only a fused-out hot plate in my flat. Daphne said I was welcome to make use of the kitchen any time I wanted. She gave me a key, and I keep a few provisions on hand. Don't let me bother you. I was just going to throw a sandwich together, although I must say that feast you have spread out there looks extremely tempting—”