Authors: Lillian Stewart Carl
“Famous last words?” Michael inquired. “Oh my, Mrs. Ripper, and little Jack was always so squeamish about blood.”
“Michael!” protested Rebecca.
Unfazed, he went on, “Besides, I’m the one takin’ away the most valuable things.”
“Valuable to you,” said Peter. “But ordinary things would help someone who just needs a little butter and egg money. The plant’s had some cutbacks recently, and there’re people around here who’ve run up pretty hefty debts.”
Rebecca eyed him, mollified by his words. That was certainly that— he wouldn’t be calling attention to himself if he were the guilty party. This was a democracy, let everyone in town be a suspect.
“Phil Pruitt,” said Jan, “is on a disability pension from the plant— asthma, I think. That’s how he and Steve can support themselves with part-time work at Dun Iain.”
“Chuck and Margie Garst just bought that new house,” put in Peter. “And with three kids, too. You know Dorothy’s helping them out. I’d say housekeeping at Dun Iain must earn a prettier penny now than it did in Louise’s day.”
“Considering the fringe benefits?” Rebecca asked. “Warren did think some things had been stolen.” And she said to herself, here we go round and round, digging ourselves in further and further, learning nothing.
Michael yawned. It was contagious— everyone yawned. Jan realized Brian had fallen asleep with his cheek pillowed on his cake while Mandy was industriously writing the alphabet by pressing crumbs onto the wall. The evening was over.
“Thank you, it’s been wonderful,” said Rebecca, piling her napkin on her plate. “I’m stuffed.”
Michael snapped to attention, and without missing a beat said, “Oh aye? And when did this happen?”
Rebecca groaned. Asked for that one— Freudian slip, indeed. “No fair,” she said cordially, “hitting below the belt.”
Michael lay back in his chair and howled. Jan and Peter looked as if they were ready to send for the butterfly nets until Rebecca explained, in a censored version suitable for Mandy’s ears, just what that bit of slang meant on the far side of the Atlantic.
All too soon she had to hug Jan, Peter, and merciful normality goodbye. She crawled flinching into the frigid car where her breath and Michael’s made little cumulus clouds against the windshield. They pulled away from the warm lights of the house, the car’s engine stuttering like the chattering of Rebecca’s teeth.
“Here,” she said at the next corner. “All night pharmacy. Let me get a new typewriter ribbon and a newspaper.”
Obligingly Michael stopped, wondering aloud just why a chemist’s shop would have typewriter ribbons. She ignored him, made her purchases, returned. The newspaper affirmed that the world had continued on its bloody path while her back was turned.
“Do you want to call Lansdale tomorrow, or shall I?” Michael asked.
“I will. I found the earring. Let’s hope he can get some straight answers from Steve.”
“Let’s hope he can find the mazer. I suppose it’s insured, but… ”
“While a check is all very nice, it’s no substitute.” Rebecca tried to contract herself into her coat. By the time the heater warmed up the car they’d be back at Dun Iain. Thank goodness she’d left some lights on.
Even her thoughts were cold, jostling in her mind like ice floes. Maybe she shouldn’t have confided in Jan and Peter. Maybe she shouldn’t have told Michael about the earring, about the postcard, about the Erskine letter.
But it was incredible that Michael could get a scam going in only a week. If he were a crook he was a lousy one, jumping down her throat whenever she mentioned the conjectural treasure. Unless he were acting suspicious as a cover for being suspicious.
As she glanced over at him he emitted a gaping yawn— he probably hadn’t slept since he got here. He had no Roman nose for the lights of the dashboard to illuminate, just even features made remarkable by the strength of personality in the brows and mouth. And the clean line of his jaw had been sculpted, no doubt, by being so frequently jutted forward.
Why had he come here, anyway? He was hardly as idealistic as she’d first thought. The attraction of the artifacts, maybe. Or the attraction of outlandish America. Or to forget Sheila-bluidy-Fitzgerald. It was possible to escape a relationship, even though it meant leaping through a ring of fire so hot you carried scorch marks on your heart.
Michael concentrated on his driving, clinging doggedly to the right hand side of the road, never suspecting he was being psychoanalyzed. The headlights of the Nova bit arcs from the road. The dim shapes of the trees slipped by on either side.
Rebecca’s head fell forward. She caught herself, sat up straighter. Eric. Just to be fair, consider Eric. He’d readily admitted why some objects were missing; he had nothing to hide. Even if he was trying to milk as many fees as possible before the Dun Iain cow ran dry, well, no one could expect him to do cut-rate work.
Rebecca squirmed uncomfortably. Then there was Ray. Good old Ray.
Michael slowed and turned in the driveway. He leaned forward over the steering wheel. Rebecca pulled her coat tightly around her chest. The stars were only visible straight overhead, the trees on either side of the driveway blotting out the ones close to the horizon. They should be able to see the house. But it wasn’t there. Only darkness loomed ahead. “No lights,” said Michael quietly. “The electricity’s gone oot. Or it’s been turned off. How convenient, wi’ the both o’ us gone.”
“But the new lock… . “Rebecca’s voice died away. And she had said so bravely to her gallant protector there on the roof, “I’m not going to run away just because the place makes me a little nervous.” A little nervous? Her nervous system was shooting sparks like a Fourth of July roman candle.
The headlights swept across the facade of the castle. It looked more secretive than ever, blank faced, a black bulk in the starlight. The Nova stopped. Michael killed the lights and the engine. The trees stood shivering with the barest perceptible murmur, pressing as closely around the house as spectators at an accident.
“Do you want tae go back tae Jan’s?” Michael murmured.
“Run away?” Rebecca steadied her voice. “Are you daft, man?”
Michael threw open his door, leaped out, slammed the door behind him. The ceiling light flashed like a flashbulb. The crash resounded across the lawn. Rebecca forced herself out her own side. In the darkness Michael’s bulbous jacket and slender legs gave him the silhouette of a stork. “Surely you have a torch in your car.”
“A flashlight? In the trunk.” Rebecca fished out her keys, fumbled with the lock, retrieved the flashlight. “It’s got fresh batteries.”
“I widna be expectin’ you tae have stale ones.” She gave a weak laugh. Michael took the flashlight in his right hand. His left secured Rebecca’s arm just above the elbow, his fingers squeezing so tightly through her coat and sweater that she grimaced. But she wasn’t about to shake him off. “Unlock the door,” he ordered, shining the light on the lock.
She unlocked the door. And it was locked— she noted that. She tucked the key ring into her left hand with the keys protruding between her fingers, the closest thing to a set of brass knuckles she could provide at the moment.
The grumble of the door’s hinges could have been heard back in Putnam. A bird protested sleepily among the trees. “A’ right then,” Michael said. “No exactly the Charge o’ the Light Brigade, but it’ll have tae do.”
“Just remember what happened to the Light Brigade,” Rebecca whispered. “Hush.”
Together they stepped into the entry. No, the light switch just inside the door didn’t work. The marble sarcophagus was a pale implication to the left. The stairway was a dark suggestion to the right. The narrow beam from the flashlight crept across the open doors of the sitting room and the kitchen, picking glints from objects inside. Rebecca wondered if she had gone suddenly deaf, the silence was so deep.
Something moved on the staircase. Blood surged in a sparkling tidal wave through Rebecca’s head, roaring in her ears. Her windpipe stuffed itself with feathers. The keys fell from her hand and jangled harshly on the stone floor. So this is what fainting feels like… .
Michael held her upright. “Dinna you dare!” He swung the unsteady pencil of light onto the staircase. Darnley sat on the center tread, front paws set primly side by side and wrapped with his tail, his eyes shining like tiger’s eye gems. Yes, his attitude seemed to say. May I help you?
“How did he get in?” demanded Michael.
Rebecca inhaled, clearing away blood and feathers both, and seized her wits like an acrobat seizing a trapeze. “Someone must have let him in.” She turned, pulling Michael around with her. The two other keys still hung by the door. Not that that proved anything.
A tremendous clattering crash reverberated through the house. Darnley sprinted up the stairs. The light beam swooped wildly across the ceiling, down the walls, across Queen Mary’s imperturbable features. “The pantry,” Rebecca gasped. “The Royal Doulton. Do we really want to corner someone in there?”
Michael snarled, “We have tae find oot what the bluidy hell is goin’ on!”
Like Siamese twins they plunged into the kitchen. Automatically Rebecca reached for the light switch. The bank of fluoroscent lights blazed out, blinding them both so that they recoiled and stood shielding their faces. “Damn!” said Michael.
Rebecca extricated her by now almost numb arm. Do it now, before you break… . She threw open the pantry door.
The rows of dishes sat in their neat shrouded piles. Not even so much as a saucer was broken. The air in the tiny room was icy cold, turgid with the scent of lavender. A dim phosphorescence swirled against the ceiling. Maybe it was a face, eyes and mouth gouged, gaping holes in the flimsy light. Maybe it was just a luminescent cloud.
It was gone almost before Rebecca realized she’d seen it. Only the scent lingered. She wrapped her arms around herself, but that did nothing to quell the bone-wracking shudder that shook her from head to toe.
Cracks widened in her mind, in her senses. Any port in a storm. Rebecca spun around and bounced off Michael’s chest. Clutching a double fistful of his coat, her voice muffled by the fabric and the body beneath, she lost her grip on her wits and with one long scream fell into terror.
His arms tightened around her, crushing her. His voice, husky with fear, reverence, and a hint of hysterical mirth, worked its way in profane litany from A to Zed.
Darnley slipped in between them, inspected his empty dish, and meowed for his supper.
Michael shoved aside the stack of diaries and set his mug of tea on the kitchen table. He asked Rebecca, “Would you like a biscuit?”
“Not right now, thank you.” She smoothed her pink dress across the bath towel she’d arranged on the counter and tested the iron to see if it was hot. “Anything you need pressed?”
“Why?” Michael settled down with his box of Walker’s shortbread liberated from the specialty coffee shop in the mall. Maybe his offer of a cookie was her reward not only for refraining from helping while he laboriously counted out the price, but for commenting on how confusing American money was.
Rebecca grinned. “Why press anything? That’s Jan’s philosophy. When I asked if I could borrow the iron, she wasn’t sure she had one.”
“Intelligent woman, Jan.” Michael shoved again at the diaries, gaining another inch or so of space.
The small clothes dryer whumped away in the corner of the kitchen. The pot of broth destined to be soup simmered on the range. Dorothy’s vacuum cleaner whined like a giant bee through the upper reaches of the house, punctuated by the thuds of Phil’s hammer. A vicious screech through the partly open window was Steve and his hedgeclippers. Rebecca winced. But just because Steve and Heather had admitted trashing her room didn’t mean either of them was capable of violence. Or even theft, for that matter.
Darnley trotted purposefully through the room, hoping that the odor of broth translated into food in his dish. Michael and Rebecca, cookie and iron upraised respectively, watched him slip into the pantry and sniff beneath the shelves. Nothing jumped out at him.
Rebecca laid the iron down. “I really am sorry… ”
“You’ve been apologizin’ every day for the last month.”
“I shouldn’t have cracked up like that,” Rebecca persisted. “Especially all over you.” She imagined the jeers of her father and brothers— just like a girl, scaredy-cat. At least she was honest, unlike her mother, whose stiff upper lip was deeply seamed with stress fractures.
“And what was I doin’?” Michael asked. “Takin’ a rise oot o’ you? Hell, I was ready tae pack it in, cut my losses, and push off home.”
“No,” said Rebecca, “you didn’t make fun of me. I appreciate that.” She hefted the iron again. It might make a good weapon against a living assailant, but there didn’t seem to be any living assailants, not any more. They were certainly getting Eric’s money’s worth out of the new lock on the front door— as she’d be sure to tell him when he picked her up for the concert tomorrow night. She ran the tip of the iron around the placket of the dress, nipping her fingertips with its heat.
Michael opened a drawer beneath the telephone and hefted an inexpensive palm-sized flashlight, one of the half dozen they had chipped in to buy at the Wal-Mart. “Well, we’re ready for the bogles the next time.”
“Don’t give them ideas. It’s been so peaceful around here. The dishes haven’t done their crashing routine for at least a week, and it’s been longer than that since the lights last went squirrelly. Except for the cut-glass bottles— they were moved around again this morning.”
“It’d be unusual tae find them keepin’ still,” Michael said. “Like the footsteps. Those nights there were none, I started missin’ them. Strange what you can live wi’, when you must. A’ this hokery-pokery, bogles or no.”
Rebecca smiled. Michael’s accent was as personable as his eyebrows. In moments of stress or excitement or, like now, domestic indolence, it thickened like syrup. She had a feeling he wouldn’t be pleased if he realized how much his speech revealed of his still secretive inner self. “In other words,” she said, “if you’ve made your bed, you have to lie in it.”