Betrayal at Blackcrest (6 page)

“I'd like to think I am,” I said.

“There is something I must ask you. I suppose you know what it is?”

“I can guess,” I said quietly, “and you needn't worry. I won't say a word about seeing you last night.”

Her enormous eyes regarded me nervously, as though she didn't dare believe me. I smiled reassuringly.

“He's a handsome lad,” I said, “although the hair and black leather aren't exactly to my taste.”

“That's all part of his—pose,” she said. “He isn't like that at all, not like those others who hang around at the café. He's wonderful. He's working hard to make something of himself. Everyone else thinks he is insolent and sullen—”

“By ‘everyone else,' you mean Derek Hawke?”

“How did you know?”

“I merely guessed,” I replied.

“Derek thinks I'm a child. He sees me as some fragile doll he must keep wrapped up in tissue paper, away from the world. He almost had a fit when Andy bought me the Chevrolet. There wasn't anything he could do about it, though. He has no legal say-so over me, and Andy can put him down when she's a mind to. Andy's my guardian.”

“Andy?”

“Andrea Hawke. She owns Blackcrest.”

“I see.”

“Derek hates Neil. He says Neil doesn't show proper respect. Neil lives here, you see, in the carriage house out in back. His father's our gardener. Neil helps him during the day, working on the grounds, and at night he works at the café-station. Neil's the only person I know who holds down two jobs. No one who works like that can be bad.”

“It seems quite commendable,” I agreed.

“I've known Neil all my life. He was like a brother to me when I was growing up. We fought all the time, and I thought he was a nasty little boy. Then, when I came back from school, all that—changed.”

Her face was radiant as she spoke of the boy. It glowed with beauty that only one emotion can give. I remembered how intensely one feels everything at that age, how tragic and hopeless everything seems, and I sympathized with the girl in her love for the gardener's son.

“Derek thinks Neil is only interested in my money. Andy set up a trust fund for me, and there was quite a lot of insurance when my parents died. It'll all be mine when I turn eighteen. That's just a few months away. None of them will have any say over me then.”

“Does your guardian object to your seeing the boy?” I asked.

“Andy? I don't think she's even aware of the way I feel about Neil. She's too wrapped up in her cats and committees and letters to the newspapers to pay much attention to me. Now she's writing her memoirs, and that takes up all her time. Oh, she's a dear, and I love her, but she's rather vague about everything. It's Derek who opposes it. He's forbidden me to speak to Neil. Neil's father is afraid Derek will fire him, so he's forbidden Neil to have anything to do with me. They're doing all they can to keep us apart.”

“Surely you and your young man can wait?”

“That's what Neil says. But I can't—”

“A few months is a very short time.”

“I won't wait,” she said, her voice passionately intense. “There are things—”

She stopped abruptly. She composed herself. I could see the effort that took. I had the impression she had been on the verge of telling me something very important, of opening a closet door and revealing a skeleton so horrifying it would chill the blood. My pulses leaped. Could it have something to do with Delia? I felt it imperative to question the girl, but the moment had passed. She was cool and reserved now. Whatever secret she had been about to tell was locked away.

“You must forgive me,” she said. “I … I've been very rude. No one likes to listen to the problems of other people. I don't ordinarily go on like this. It's just that … there are so few people to talk to, and you seem so nice, Deborah.”

“That's the nicest compliment I've had in a long time,” I replied.

“Will you be staying at Blackcrest long?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

“It would be nice, but—”

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Nothing. Come, I'll show you the way down now.”

We walked down the hall. The house was shabby here, the wallpaper peeling at the seams, the carpet worn and smelling of moths. Plaster flaked off the ceiling, and there were brown moisture stains. Honora led the way through the maze of halls, and we finally came to the main staircase that curved down to the front hall. The girl hesitated, her hand resting on the dark mahogany banister.

“I like you, Deborah,” she said. “I … I do hope you'll keep your word and not mention seeing me last night.”

“Of course I will,” I replied.

It was dark at the top of the staircase. There were no windows anywhere near, and none of the sunlight penetrated here. Shadows stroked the dark blue wallpaper. Tall green plants grew in ugly black pots, their heavy leaves giving a dense, junglelike effect where we were. I could barely see the girl as she stood half-hidden by one of the plants.

“Are you one of Derek's friends?” she asked abruptly.

“I just met him last night,” I replied.

“I'm glad. I'm … glad you're not his friend.”

“Why do you say that?”

She hesitated. Once again she seemed about to reveal something important. She touched one of the blackish-green leaves, and when she finally spoke, her voice was so low I could hardly hear her.

“It isn't likely you'll stay,” she said. “It's just as well. Derek doesn't like people here. I'm afraid Blackcrest isn't a happy place. You're much too nice to be here.”

I wanted to ask her to explain her words, but she had gone. She had vanished among the shadows. I was alone, surrounded by the dark plants. What a very strange girl, I thought, and how very odd her last words. I hesitated for a moment and then started down the spiral staircase. I would think about Honora later on. Now I was interested to see what Derek Hawke had to say for himself this morning.

5

Derek Hawke was just putting down the telephone receiver when I stepped into the breakfast room. He set the instrument aside and smiled at me, nodding his head in greeting. He was wearing a pair of brown pants and a bulky knit sweater of dull gold. His hair was as untidy as it had been the night before, spilling over his forehead in thick black waves. There was a strength and vigor about him this morning that made me uncomfortable. He was like a healthy animal confined to a small space and deliberately restraining great energy.

He ignored me for a moment as he jotted something down on a pad. I felt weak as I smelled the heavenly odors of coffee and toast. I hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours.

“There,” he said, putting down the pad and looking at me. “How are you this morning, Miss Lane?”

“Hungry,” I said, despite myself.

“I'll have cook bring in some breakfast. We've got quite a lot to talk about, haven't we?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Derek Hawke pressed a bell. After a moment a fat, belligerent-looking woman came shuffling into the room. Her steel-gray hair was done up in curlers, and her angry brown eyes glared at me. She wore a light blue uniform and a pair of tennis shoes. She clutched a yellow tabloid in one hand, and the other one held a half-eaten sweet roll. She was clearly put out at being interrupted in her reading.

“Another ax murder, Jessie?” Hawke inquired.

“Found a severed head in a vacant lot. Police suspect a schoolmaster.”

“Well, if you don't mind waiting awhile to pore over the details, Miss Lane would like her breakfast now. I'll have another cup of coffee to keep her company. Hurry it up, too, Jessie. Miss Lane is hungry.”

Jessie shot me a venomous look and shuffled out of the room. I felt highly uncomfortable.

“Will she put ground glass in my eggs?” I asked.

“Jessie's been with us for twenty years,” Derek Hawke explained in a smooth voice. “She's a bit eccentric, a bit set in her ways, but we overlook that. No one can cook a roast or make a pudding to match hers. With help so hard to find nowadays, Jessie's a treasure. She knows it, too, which complicates matters. I'm afraid she's got us over a barrel.”

“Frightening thought,” I remarked.

He grinned. He seemed to be in a very agreeable mood this morning, gracious, expansive. I wondered what had caused the change.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Fairly. I thought I heard loud voices.”

“You probably did. I had words with my aunt's ward. The girl's seventeen and thinks she can stay out at all hours without a fare-thee-well from anyone. I hope it didn't disturb you too much?”

“I was too exhausted to let it really bother me.”

“You had quite a day yesterday, didn't you?”

“That's putting it mildly.”

“And quite a shock, as well. I'm sorry about that. Here's Jessie. Put the tray down anywhere, Jessie. We'll help ourselves.”

Jessie slammed the tray down on the sideboard with an unnecessary clatter and shuffled heavily out of the room. The door banged behind her with an ear-splitting retort.

“We generally eat at seven-thirty,” he said, not at all perturbed by the cook's conduct. “Jessie reserves the time between eight and eleven for her tabloids and astrology charts. She doesn't like her routine disturbed.”

“So I've noticed.”

“Help yourself, Miss Lane.”

I heaped my plate high with fluffy yellow scrambled eggs and curls of crisp bacon. Derek Hawke poured coffee into thick blue cups and set a rack of fresh toast on the table. He watched with an amused expression as I devoured my food, going back for a second helping of bacon. When I had finished he lit one of his slender brown cigars and strolled over to the window, pushing the curtain aside. I poured another cup of coffee. I felt strong now, ready for battle.

“It seems I owe you an apology,” he began.

“Oh?”

“I'm convinced you're no blackmailer.”

“How did you reach that cheerful conclusion, Mr. Hawke?”

“I've been on the telephone all morning,” he said, “talking to some of my connections in London—a quite reliable firm, in fact.”

“Indeed?”

“They did some checking up and called me back. The phone bill is going to be enormous, but it's been worth it. I've found out quite a lot about you, Miss Lane.”

“Have you?”

He nodded. “It's amazing what you can learn if you put the right people on to it. I made my first call at seven, and within an hour and a half I learned all I needed to know about you.”

“And what would that be?”

“First of all, that you're quite respectable and have no police record of any kind. Secondly, that you do indeed have a cousin named Delia Lane who left London a month ago with, supposedly, every intention of making a suitable marriage. It seems she didn't give the man's name to any of the people my man contacted, but they all agreed that she left to be married.”

I waited, reserving any comment until he was finished.

“She quit the show she was with—
Mod Madness
, some kind of musical revue—and drew eleven hundred pounds out of the bank. The producer was furious and had some very unpleasant things to say about people who quit without proper notice. Miss Lane left London on April 14 and hasn't been heard from since.”

“So?”

“I'm not finished. Miss Lane was seen once or twice in the company of a tall, dark stranger—you'll pardon the expression—who might possibly resemble me in essentials. She didn't introduce this man to any of her friends. In fact, she went out of her way to keep his identity a secret. The choreographer of the revue met them in a pub and felt properly snubbed when she didn't introduce her companion.”

“Is that all?”

“Not quite. It seems she told one of the chorus girls she was coming to Hawkestown and would live in a tremendous old house. That's all my man could uncover in such a short time, although he did pick up a few savory items about Miss Lane's romantic life.”

“Really?”

“He's had no time to check any of this, mind you, but gossip has it that your cousin was hardly selective in her choice of male companions. She once dated a member of Parliament, married variety, but threw him over for a trombone player. Her name has been linked with a French film star, a bartender, a soccer player, and the proprietor of a left-wing bookstore in Chelsea. I'm sure there are others, but my man hasn't had time to discover them yet. His assistants are working on it.”

“I'll just bet they are,” I said angrily.

“Are the reports false?”

“You know how theater people gossip and backbite.”

“Still, where there's smoke—”

“Are you suggesting that my cousin is promiscuous?”

“Not at all. I'm merely trying to corroborate my theory.”

“And what would that be, Mr. Hawke?”

“It's quite simple. Your cousin met a man—married, no doubt—in London, probably a very rich and influential man, and decided to run off with him for a few weeks of holiday. It was important that no one knew his name, so she was extremely secretive about it. I've no doubt she'll turn up in a week or two with a glorious tan, a new mink coat, and a fund of anecdotes about the south of France.”

“That's all very well,” I said hastily, “but you don't know Delia. She's gone out with dozens of men—she's full of life and loves to play around—but she's quite moral. She's never accepted an expensive gift from any of her escorts, and she'd never run off with a married man. She hates the south of France. We both went there once for a week's holiday and met the most incredible bores. I blistered and Delia got diarrhea. I'm afraid it wouldn't hold water!”

Derek Hawke grinned. I blushed at the unintentional pun.