With one hand on the wall for a guide, I edged along, hoping to put this place, whatever it might be, between me and my follower. I longed to pause, to listen, but I dared not.
The building seemed large. It was a long time before I reached the corner of the wall. Here the ground gave way beneath my feet, and I fell again, so suddenly that a cry was jarred out of me.
My cry was answered by a call I was too confused and frightened to answer. On hands and knees I crawled on. Under me was a cold sweep of concrete—a driveway? But that meant a gate—a way to the street and safety! But I was so confused that somehow I found my way not out—but back once more to the building.
There was shouting—as if more than one person was chasing me. Or was that rather the sounds of help on its way from the Abbey? I cowered against the wall, panting, my hands scraped raw, pressed to my face. Could I escape the attention of any pursuer until that help arrived?
Then a beam of light pinned me there, blinded me. I heard a sharp exclamation of surprise.
“A woman!”
I think I was a little hysterical by that time. What had he expected—Dracula? My panic was ebbing. Surely no assailant would use a light, not with others near by. There were others, I could hear their noisy progress through the garden.
“Who is it?” came a call from not too far away.
“A woman—” repeated my captor.
Only two short words, but at their repetition I drew a sharp breath which was both dissent and protest Even five years—it was not fair, I told myself, to have this in addition to what I had just gone through.
Once more I was gripped by the desire to laugh. Of all the possible meetings with Mark Rohmer which my imagination had presented from time to time, one such as this had never occurred to me. I was conscious of my bedraggled condition. What a pity that fainting at such crucial and embarrassing moments was now out of fashion. How easily ladies had been able to escape from such awkward confrontations in the days when one could, no, was even expected to, swoon. The situation which had frightened me like a nightmare was about to end in a shaming farce.
Well, I would have to face this. I had made a long run, far longer than just across the end of the Abbey garden, to avoid this moment. Now I was heartened by discovering in myself an unexpected source of strength to stiffen my backbone and produce a voice sounding reassuringly cool. If he had not suspected my identity, it might be my turn to provide a shock—unless I had been totally dismissed from his mind long ago.
“I would appreciate not being blinded, please.”
When he did not answer, or switch away the light, I was provoked and somewhat angry. Could it be true he had no memory of me at all? Somehow I found that irritating rather than reassuring.
“Are you a policeman?”
He could not be. What was Mark Rohmer doing here?
“If one cannot cross the garden without being chased and frightened—” I continued, my confidence returning with every word.
This was wonderful! Why, I need never have feared such confrontation at all! Seeing Mark had not reduced me to the depths of shame. I must only hold on to this new sense of power, of self-confidence. After all this time, I was truly cured!
The light dropped at last. I lowered my hands from my face where I had used them to shade my eyes. Then the others were upon us from out of the garden and I heard Preston Donner say, in astonishment and concern:
“Why—it’s Miss Jansen!”
If he had not recognized me before—at least Mark must now. As for me, I wanted to get away while I was still buoyed up with this unusual sense of detachment.
“I would like to return to the house, Mr. Donner, if you are all through playing hide and seek,” I announced. “I think I have been sufficiently frightened for one evening.” I held out one hand in the direction of Donner’s voice, ignoring the still-unseen Mark.
“Of course.” He came swiftly into the beam of light and I clutched his arm with more fervor than I had ever before accepted any masculine support. My legs were shaking. Perhaps I was not so armored as I had believed a moment ago. Or perhaps my exertions of the past half-hour were responsible for this queer, weak feeling. I did want to get away from Mark as soon as possible.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Donner, I would like to get in. I became lost in the garden, and then I was chased by the man holding that light.” I made my words sound as stiff a protest as I could.
Donner’s support was firm and ready. It gave me the secure feeling I needed. Still, Mark said nothing at all as I was towed gently away. Donner snapped on his own flashlight to show our path. I went eagerly, still tense, still expecting to hear even a single word of protest. When that did not come, I was perversely angry.
Now I was fully aware of my smarting hands, my soaked feet and hair. I must look like a perfect witch. No wonder he had not known me. I was grateful for Preston Donner, the ever-perfect gentleman of a model I had sometimes been—reluctantly—exposed to in Aunt Otilda's narrow world.
“I was only going over to see Mrs. Cantrell.” My voice sounded peevish, and I did not try to correct that. “And I became mixed up on the paths in the dark. Then that very officious policeman started chasing me. And, well, I didn't know he was the police—” Babbling, yes, but that explanation was the first which came into my mind at the moment. I was not going to say more until I had time to do some uninterrupted thinking.
There was warm pressure on my arm, a note of comfort in his voice as he answered:
“A most frightening experience. I trust you are not hurt?”
“Just a few minor scrapes and bumps.” I was very glad to see the side door not too far ahead.
However, when once within the house again, I had some difficulty in persuading my too-sensitive cavalier that I could indeed proceed by myself, achieving my way only after some argument. Miss Elizabeth's door was firmly closed as I went down the upper hall. I paused by it. Under my touch the knob turned, I must satisfy myself—I looked in.
From the bureau top, a shaded lamp gave very limited light. Miss Elizabeth lay in the bed, two braids of hair, as white as the linen of the pillow cases, resting over her shoulders to prove she had retired for the night. On the chaise longue Maud rested, her prim cap askew, her black and gray hair straggling from its daytime knot. Her breath bubbled between her lips in a series of snorts. But someone had pulled the folds of an afghan over her body.
Save for that, I could not criticize the innocent-appearing stage setting. Whoever might come to investigate—if that did happen—would see no more than was proper for that hour. I guessed that if I attempted to arouse the mistress of the house, I would be treated to an excellent performance of a dazed old lady being shaken from a much-needed rest. Not that I was going to put Miss Elizabeth to any such test. Even the door was unlocked, though I was certain Miss Austin did not so usually invite any invasion of her privacy. This scene had been arranged to entice a viewing of innocence at rest.
Once more I wanted to laugh. But I closed the door as quietly as I had opened it and went on to my own room.
There I took inventory of my deplorable condition. My shoes—I kicked off those swishy blobs—could probably never be worn again. My pantyhose were a mass of runs, spreading up and down from bloody knees. There were splatters of melting snow on my coat, circles of damp on my slacks. My hair hung in sodden rings across my face.
Late as it was, I had to trust in soundproofed walls and soak in a tub. I was shivering, and my cold was certainly going to be much worse unless I applied some heroic measures.
Wrapped in my robe, I went down the hall and soaked. Then, feeling really warm again, I turned to the serious task of dealing with my hair. I was twirling rollers with veteran ease, when there came a knock at my door. I froze—but of course it could not be—
“Who's there?”
“Leslie.” There was, I thought, a demanding inflection in that indentification.
“Come in.” I must stick to that story I had tol
d Donner—he had seemed to accept it without question. The trouble was I thought Leslie Lowndes might be a little less ready to believe in such foolish action on anyone's part
She might have been just aroused from a well-earned rest, but her blue caftan was fashion-inspired, and she apparently did not sleep in either face cream or rollers. Or else she had waited to get rid of them before venturing out of sanctuary.
“What's going on? Someone in the bathroom at this hour—lights all over the garden. This is the middle of the night! What do the police think they are doing?”
“It is really very simple.” I must not let her seem formidable. Was my present confidence born of the fact that the worst I had expected had now happened and the world had not come to an end—rather, I was in firm command of myself? I was not even too conscious of the rollers, of my semi-broiled face. “I was going over to see Theodosia, and one of the police must have followed me. I took a wrong turn and got lost. Then he started chasing me and scared me out of my wits. I had no idea who he was—”
I watched Leslie's reflection in the mirror behind my own. Had or had not her head moved a fraction at my mention of the garden? That man on the path earlier—someone coming to the house? But I was certain Leslie was not going to challenge my story. And I had the rest of the night to polish it—iron out any weaknesses.
My exultation grew. This feeling of being in command of my destiny—it was wonderful! I watched my lips curve into a small smile. Despite rollers and no powder on my shiny nose, I had, I thought critically, never looked better in my life. Then, remembering my audience, I yawned.
“I'm guilty about the bathroom. Sorry I disturbed you, but I came in soaked and took a precaution against a chill.”
“I understand.” Leslie moved back to the door. “It must have been a most frightening experience.”
She was interrupted by a rap. I stiffened and then forced myself to relax, dared to ask a favor. Waving an explanatory hand towards the door, and then to my head, I whispered:
“Will you see who that is?”
She nodded, opening the door a thin crack to ask: “Who is it?”
“Miss Jansen?” inquired a masculine voice, kept to a corresponding whisper. It was not the one I had feared to hear.
Leslie glanced at me. I had already kicked off my slippers and was shedding my robe. Then I spoke, loud enough to be heard outside.
“I have had a very disturbing time and I am going to bed. Since I do not want to catch the flu I shall remain there.”
Leslie smiled and nodded. Then she slipped out to confront my midnight caller, apparently to testify I was doing exactly what I had said. I waited but heard nothing more. Then I turned out the light, and, for the first time in my life, locked my bedroom door before going to bed.
7
In spite of my desire for thinking out what had happened in the garden, I fell into the deepest sleep I had known for days shortly after I stretched out between those chilly sheets. When I roused, I was half within another dream, one I tried to prolong but which, after the manner of our best dreams, swiftly faded.
As I sat up in bed I saw the draggled clothing I had dropped the night before. Certainly I was right in thinking I would never be able to wear those shoes again. The suit must be sent to the cleaners. I would have to wear my best, whether I wanted to or not Having been raised to believe that the wearing of “best” was done only on important occasions, I began some planning to justify it.
The feeling of freedom which had carried over from my dream puzzled me. This energy, the desire to be doing—doing what I did not exactly know—was new. My thoughts kept turning to those moments when I had met Mark face to face and stood my ground. He never, I told myself exultantly, could guess I carried a burden from the past—that was pure sentimental trash, nonsense!
I needed only to continue as I had last night, and I would have no worries. Did Leslie, and those poised women like her, always feel this sort of self-confidence?
Shedding my rollers, I regarded the result in the mirror. Under a scarf, it should not look too bad. I knew I was going to get out of the Abbey. I wanted to see Theodosia, buy a new pair of shoes—take a shopping tour.
Now I transferred my wealth of possessions from the plain plastic handbag which did daily duty to the elegant snakeskin box which matched my best pumps. Nine-thirty by my watch. There was a car parked in the drive, another closer to the gate. Perhaps I had better take the garden path to the coach house.
I paused in the hall. One more duty. I tapped on Miss Austin's door. It opened just enough for Maud to squeeze through. Her face was not quite as dourly set as usual, as she looked at me.
“How is Miss Austin?” .
“Sleeping, miss. Ever since last night. And she's going to keep on sleeping as far as them police know. She's been all shook up, Miss Elizabeth has, and that ain't good—not at her age.”
“She won't be disturbed with you on guard, Maud.”
“ ‘Deed she won't, miss! I've been with her all night, and the poor dear lady slept like a lamb. Nobody's going to get in to trouble her, not while I'm around. You going out, miss?”
“Yes. Anything I can get for Miss Austin?”
“No, miss. Not that I know of. But thank you kindly, just the same.” She retreated crabwise into the room and closed the door. I almost lingered to listen for the sound of a barricade in erection. It would be a very determined law-enforcement officer who would dare to enter that fortress.
I went to the lower hall and looked up Theodosia's phone number. A distant ringing made me impatient. I wanted to get out of the house.
“Theodosia?”
“Just a minute.” Gordon, and by his tone in no good mood. But Theodosia's warmth of greeting a moment later made up for his curtness.
“Erica, what in the world is going on? I have called five times, got some policeman, but no logical answer. And somebody came over last night with the weirdest list of questions. He froze me out when I tried to ask some of my own. Has there been more trouble? And what's going on down by the old theater?”
As she paused for breath I managed a question: “What theater?”
“The little one—where the Austins used to give the Jane Austen plays—I told you. There are two police cars and an ambulance there, and they won't let anyone near. Ordered Gordon away when he tried to go over this morning. What has happened?”
I was not prepared to tell the story over the phone. Perhaps if I did not bolt for freedom now I might be stopped by Lieutenant Daniels or one of his zealous underlings.
“Listen, Theodosia, I have to go downtown. Are you going to the library this morning? Can I get a ride?”
“Do they have you in a state of siege? No, I'm not going in, but Gordon is, and he'll give you a lift. Come over, I'll even provide breakfast if you haven't eaten. But you'll have to tell all in return.”
“I'll be there.” But as I put down the phone, I wondered if I would be able to escape.
Irene Frimsbee came down the stairs. I could hear the distant crying of a fretful child. Her face, bruised as it was, also showed drawn and haggard, her eyes tired. Over her arm was the plaid coat, and she had a scarf tied over her head.
“Are you going out, Mrs. Frimsbee?”
She stared at me glassily, looking, I thought, as if she had not really slept soundly for days.
“To the drugstore. I have to leave a new prescription. They'll deliver it later.”
“See here.” I touched her coat. “I have to send my coat to the cleaners’. Let me borrow yours. I'm planning to go out, and I'll do your errand for you.”
Irene glanced down, as if surprised to discover she was holding the coat. “This old thing—but you're all dressed up—” Then she brightened. “Would you really, Miss Jansen? I hate to leave Stuart. These colds of his are so bad. Maud has to stay with Aunt Elizabeth. There's no one to sit with Stuart while I'm gone. It's the drugstore right on the corner near the inn. Leave the prescription, and their boy will
bring it up as soon as they have it ready. They're good about delivering. Sure—take my coat if you want.”
She pushed the plaid horror at me and hurried up the stairs as if she feared I would change my mind. I shrugged the wrap on. I was near the same height as its owner, if, I thought smugly, a lot slimmer. Now I also had a legitimate excuse for leaving the house.
Pulling the hood up about my chin, I paused only to put on the boots I should have worn last night. There was a policeman outside, but on my producing the prescription he waved me on.
Around the corner would bring me to the carriage house by the way of Emma Horvath's drive. Ahead, I could see two men in uniform, moving people away from the front of another gate farther down. Behind them I caught a glimpse of the rear of an ambulance.
Why an ambulance? Surely no one had been hurt during our exercise in the garden last night. Unless—I stumbled.
The idea of what they might be dealing with made me a little sick. In the grave Miss Elizabeth had visited last night, there might already have been a burial. This was still murder—a murder which Miss Elizabeth had helped to conceal, by all I could guess.
I tramped up the Horvath drive, sure now I was going to leave the Abbey. If the police said “no"—at least I would have this day free.
Theodosia answered the door at once, ready with a spate of questions. Gordon Cantrell, his face pinched looking, as if he were beginning to shrivel into middle age without ever having fully matured, stared moodily into his coffee cup with the sullenness of a schoolboy who has been rated for some omission or commission. Yet there was no atmosphere of a recent quarrel. In fact, Theodosia appeared so intrigued by what was going on at the Abbey, she might have forgotten his presence. But I remembered, so I was not as frank as I might have been, giving only a slightly expanded version of what I had told Preston Donner.
“So that's what went on last night! Gordon went over and one of the police caught him and wanted to know what he was doing!”
“Stupid ass!” Gordon did not raise his eyes from his cup. “Had to hammer it into his thick skull. It wasn't until the other fellow came along he let me go. At least he had some sense.”