And when he looked a second time, he saw the dog.
* * *
It was November, and it was cold. and the bay in the hackney’s traces didn’t mind the soft hands that smoothed through her mane and stroked her cold muzzle and took up the reins and moved her without a whip.
It was November, in Oxrun Station, and the depot was empty; and when the wind blew again nothing moved at all but the ragged end of a muffler, in the doorway, soaked in blood.
2
The Hack sped west along Chancellor Avenue, through the cold dark toward the village proper. The dirt road was hard-frozen, the trees on either side in black and white motley; every so often a wall broke from the verge, high and unlighted, marking the small estates hidden back in the woodland, echoing hooves like cannonade and gunshot, rolling clattering wheels into sharp staccato thunder. The single lantern hanging from the landau roof swung wildly, scattering shadows, guttering once as if it would flare out.
There was no one at all in the high driver’s seat.
For three miles the bay strained, untouched but racing, and by the time it reached the mark where the road turned to stone, its mouth was covered with bubbling white foam. Steam curled from its lathered flanks. Sparks flared from its hooves. While beside it, pacing easily, was a silver-maned black wolf.
Williamston Pike was empty, and Marty Reston didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way the gaslight hid itself in the bare hickory and elms, or the way the houses up and down the road were so dark as to seem deserted, or the way the cobblestones held between them tiny rivers of shifting black. The patches of snow left from the first fall glinted dully, in pale grey; the cold air made the edge of everything too sharp, a thousand stone and wood knives looking to cut him; and the cold air itself, ready to shatter if he moved too quickly. He felt trapped, but he had to do something or his blood would freeze, his skin would tum brittle, and the first light of dawn would find him stiff in the gutter, huddled like a dead cat tossed from a coachwheel.
Slowly, then, he rose from his crouch behind a skeletal bush that threatened with red thorns, thumped his arms across his chest to get the circulation in motion, and took the chance to stand out on the pavement. He was on the west comer, Centre Street and its empty shops stretching down to his right. On the other side was another wooded lot, but this one was being cleared and all that was left were scattered piles of stripped trunks and a few snow-capped deadfalls. There was going to be a new building there one of these days, though probably not until the ground softened in spring. But he didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t give a damn. All he knew was that he’d been waiting here for over an hour and not a single carriage had gone by. Not a single pedestrian. Not a single coach or cart. He glared east along the Pike, shook his head and sighed.
Amy was the lucky one, working up there at the Squires’ place where it was warm and she could pinch a bit of food whenever she felt hungry. Definitely the lucky one. Not that she denied him his little sideline; after all, the Squires hardly ever missed the bits of glass and silver she slipped into her apron every now and then. No, she never denied him or nagged him or complained about her lot, not even when he got himself caught and spent time in the workhouse.
But if he had any sense, he would get himself a job that never required him to stand out in the cold, or the rain, or the heat, or any weather at all that wasn’t exactly like spring. If he had more sense, he would get off the street, get himself straight down Chancellor Avenue and into the Inn. They didn’t mind him there, as long as he paid for his gin and made no disturbance. He would stand in front of the fireplace and warm his hands, his rump, shake the winter from his black shortcoat and stay there until summer.
He coughed. He coughed again, harshly, and spat phlegm and blood into the street. A quick glance around to be sure he was not spotted, and he readjusted the scratchy wool muffler around his neck, used the flat of his gloved hands to pull the beak of his wool cap lower over his eyes. He sniffed. He swallowed. He sniffed again and spat blood.
Then he heard the carriage. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out his cosh, peered down Centre Street and saw the hack swerve around the far comer. It kept to the center of the cobblestones, out of the light, but not before Marty recognized the bay. He grinned. Horace had picked someone up at the depot, a traveller with all that travelling gold just lying there in his pockets.
Suddenly, it stopped just a block away.
He frowned as the bay tossed its head wearily, snorting, shifting, steam gusting from its nostrils.
He frowned again; from where he was standing he could see no one driving.
And just as he stepped to the curb to get a better look, he heard the footfall behind him, and felt the hand on his shoulder.
The bay tried to rear within the confinement of its traces, but a voice (a soft whisper) soon had it calm, soon had it moving to the end of the street and around the comer to the Pike. Its eyes rolled whitely at the snarling it heard, but the voice (a soft whisper) drove the sound and the fear and the scent of blood from its mind. For another two miles it trotted, then, until finally it reached a dark wall of fitted fieldstone nearly twelve feet high. It slowed. The wall parted between two marble posts each topped with a marble eagle. Over them soared an iron filigree arch with the words Squires Manor fashioned out of polished brass. The bay turned into the drive, moving easily now as the lantern cast its light ahead of it in gold.
One hundred yards later the trees fell aside and the hackney followed a long, leisurely curve in front of a large mansion. It was three stories high, its walls of brick, its roof gently pitched and interrupted only by a clutch of fat chimneys. The windows were tall and narrow, the porch deep, the shrubs at the base thick and evergreen. It was solid, and plain, the only sign of ostentation the rainbow rise of a stained-glass dome in the center of the roof’s peak.
There were other carriages, other coaches, but the bay did not stop until it had reached the head of the line, almost to the point where the drive met itself again at the end of the loop.
The springs creaked, and a moment later a blanket was thrown over the horse’s back. Its ears pricked up, but when it turned its head it saw nothing.
Nothing but the green eyes of the silver-maned wolf.
There was music, loud and sprightly, and there was laughter to match; there was rich food in abundance, fine wines and champagne; and the guests that numbered eighty were in velvets and gems and silks that caught the rainbow.
Pamela Squires swept through the huge crowded rooms of the first floor in a whirlwind of gold. Her dress, brocade and silk and scooped at the neck to show just enough of her breasts, whispered in her wake and had most of the male guests staring after her no matter who they were with; her hair, long and gleaming in the gas and candlelight, was a deep and warm yellow, sweeping in soft natural waves to nest on her shoulders; and the necklace that she wore was made of gold links, with a single emerald pendant that trapped the light and held it. The gem matched her eyes, and her eyes were alive in a slightly rounded face flushed now from excitement — not from the party. but from the waiting for her guest.
She was never impolite to anyone who stopped her, but she was clearly distracted, her conversation short of perfunctory, her smile a bit strained, her gaze never holding another’s for very long. Instead, it shifted continually to a doorway or a window, her white-gloved hands fluttering around her narrow waist whenever liveried Timmons admitted a new face.
Impervious to the laughter, to the orchestra playing in the ballroom, to the servants’ ministrations. she wandered fitfully until she reached the long greenhouse porch in back. It was warm here and cozy, the large-paned glass walls and slanted glass ceiling holding in the heat from the couples who strolled along the brick-and-wood flooring, admiring the winter roses and other vivid blossoms displayed on marble pedestals artfully placed throughout the room.
A hand touched her arm. She turned, smiled, and rolled her eyes toward heaven.
“Jack!” she said, and tilted her cheek to be kissed.
Jack Foxworth obliged with a grin, took Pamela’s arm and brought her to the rear wall now running with condensation. He was not much taller than she, five years older than her own twenty-four. He wore a black dinner suit with double-breasted quilted lapels and black velvet stitching down the seams of his trousers. His pleated shirt was a blinding white, the studs tiny rubies encased in gold. When he turned to face the house, the French doors opened to the ballroom and the center hallway, the dim light flared in his dark ginger hair.
Pamela stared out at the vast lawn in back, and shivered slightly at the cold held at bay only by a thin pane of glass. “I thought you weren’t going to bother to come tonight.”
He smiled, but barely. His dark eyes seemed almost black against his fair skin, his romanesque features almost harsh when he frowned. “I couldn’t leave you to this … ” and he waved a hand toward the party. “Of course, I know how you love it.”
She giggled. “That’s not very good of you, Jack. After all, Father’s giving this in honor of — ”
“An actress,” he said scornfully. “A French one, at that, and she didn’t even bother to come.” He paused. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand the people around here. Bernhardt’s still down in Washington, yet here you all are as if you expected her to walk through the front door at any minute. “
“It’s the thought,” she said, mock-primly. “Do you not give parties when one of your precious ships is launched?”
“I can hardly get a ship into my dining room, Pamela,” he said dryly. Then he turned to her suddenly, took her hands and held them close to his chest.
“Jack, please,” she whispered.
“Pamela, listen, I don’t think I can — ”
He stopped when her head suddenly snapped around, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. “What is it?”
“Did you hear that?”
He followed her gaze, to the wash of pale light that stretched over the snow-covered lawn. “Hear what?”
“Something … a dog. It was howling.”
“I didn’t hear anything. Pamela — ”
She pulled her hands free and dusted at his lapels. “Jack, I can’t talk to you tonight, really. And certainly not about that. I’m expecting someone very important, and she’s late. Besides,” she added, “you and Father have been sneaking around for days, whispering about this and that and not telling me a thing. I don’t think that’s very fair of you. “
“Well, my dear,” he said smugly, “women can’t be expected to know all the gossip in the world.”
“We’re not talking about gossip.”
He grinned. “No, I guess we’re not. And we’re not talking about this friend of yours, either. As I recall, we were talking about — ”
“No,” she said gently. “I told you not tonight. 1 can’t.” She looked up into his eyes and smiled an apology. “Forgive me?”
“I always do, don’t I?” he said sourly.
She kissed his cheek quickly, promised to speak with him later, and hurried out of the room before anyone else caught her.
Ten minutes later she finally surrendered pretext of courtesy and hurried to the center hall. When she arrived, no one was there except Timmons, and he’d known her long enough not to fret over her state. He was tall, black, his grey hair dark, his creviced skin shining with gentle perspiration. He smiled when she glanced at him, looked away when she strode to the paneled walnut door and lay a hand on the faceted glass knob. The hand fell away. She turned, and sighed, and looked to the grandfather clock on the short wall to her left.
“My god,” she whispered in dismay. “My god, it’s after twelve. “
Under the butler’s watchful eye, then, she began a slow pacing along the hall’s crimson runner. The hall itself was long and narrow, wasting little time before it opened on the right to the dining room with its fifteen-foot refectory table and green velvet drapes, the Swiss crystal and the English silver, and the Persian carpets on the floor; on the left was the sitting room, large enough for three sofas, several islands of armchairs and sidetables, a massive fireplace on the righthand wall over which was a portrait of Grandon and Violet Squires.
Directly ahead of her was a staircase that marched carpeted to a broad open landing which could be taken down again on the other side to the back half of the house, and which also split to climb left and right to a gallery that led to the rooms on the second and third stories; and from the gallery’s sharp-angled supporting beams hung twenty-foot Norman and French tapestries which depicted hunts and battles and idyllic woodland glens.
Pamela walked to the first step as if she would ascend, stopped instead and looked up, all the way up to the stained-glass dome and the twelve-tiered chandelier that hung like a glass arrowhead at the end of a thick chain run through a loop at the dome’s center. It was lighted, and the tear-drop crystals reflected the candle flames a thousand times over. A soft smile touched her lips, and her left hand reached out to the newel post so her balance wouldn’t be lost. Like staring into the heart of a comet, she thought, or the soul of a sun.
A knock loud enough to overcome the music.
She turned, her heart racing, as Timmons stirred himself and pulled the massive door open.
The wind took advantage. It swirled over the threshold and chained itself about her ankles, ruffling her skirts and trembling the flames in the silver-sconced candles on the walls. A low fog of snow drifted onto the floor.
And she heard it again, back in the dark now flecked with falling white-a distant, unmistakable howling less a mourning than a summons.
“Oh no,” she said, frowning puzzlement as she moved forward. Then, louder: “Good Lord, what are you doing here?”
3
Ned Stockton looked over his shoulder once, frowning, and stepped inside at Timmons’ silent invitation. A black-gloved hand brushed a dusting of snow from his Inverness cloak, then quickly doffed a felt hat banded in black. His lean, high-cheeked face was flushed with the cold, flecks of white clinging to his thick dark brows. He was c1eanshaven, and clearly apologetic.
“What are you doing here.” Pamela whispered again, glancing around to see that no one else was near them.
“I must see your father, Pam,” he said, his voice resonant and solemn. He looked to the guests just visible in the front room. “I know this is an awkward moment — ”
“Awkward,” she said. “Awkward? My god, Ned, why didn’t you use the back entrance. If anyone — ” She groaned exasperation and took hold of his arm, pulled him away as he grinned at the butler and allowed himself to be hustled down the hallway and past the staircase to a small door on the right. Pamela fairly kicked it open and thrust him inside, closed the door behind them and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Now,” she said. “What’s going on?”
They were in the anteroom of the kitchen. Behind them, another open door showed him the huge black ovens and stoves, the bustling maids and cooks working on freestanding tables in the center of what seemed like absolute chaos. None of the women looked at him for more than a puzzled moment; they were too busy preparing the replacement trays and pitchers for the buffet in the ballroom.
“Ned!” she hissed.
He looked back and smiled, his gaze candidly drifting over her gown, her figure.
“None of that now,” she warned, though her eyes sparked with pleasure. “Come on, tell me.”
He sobered instantly. “Pam — ”
She groaned again. “Ned, how many times have I told you not to call me that. At least not here in the house. If Father should hear you — ”
“All right,” he said, one hand up to calm her. “All right. But I must see Mr. Squires. Immediately, Pam.”
She caught the urgency in his tone and lowered her arms slowly. “Trouble?”
‘‘I’m afraid so.” Another glance into the kitchen, and a finger to his lips as a uniformed maid bustled past them with a shy smile, he
r arms laden with a tray of crystal wine glasses. When she’d vanished into the hallway, he touched Pamela’s arm briefly. “There’s been a death.”
“No wonder, with all the cold,” she said. “But what does that have to do — ”
“Not the cold,” he said grimly. “A murder.”
In less than five minutes Ned found himself in the upstairs library. He had been there before on several occasions, but the sheer numbers of books on the shelves covering each of the walls never failed to astonish, and awe, him. They also made him feel somewhat saddened since he knew that only Pamela bothered to take advantage of all the knowledge that lay between the rich leather covers. Her father certainly never did: he was always far too busy structuring, digesting, virtually breathing all the facts and figures, the politics and sly dealings that had made him so great a force in the banking world that he seldom had to leave the Station at all. It made him wonder more than once where Pamela had veered from the family tree.
He was standing in the center of a vast Persian carpet, an intricate floral pattern dizzying in blues and golds. In front of him was a long, scalloped-back sofa, and in its center sat Grandon Squires. He was a large man in both height and width, the snug cut of his black evening wear bespeaking wealth more eloquently than the large onyx and gold signet rings on his fingers; his shoes were gleaming black patent leather, and the left foot tapped impatiently in the air.
“I fail to understand what all this has to do with me, Mr. Stockton,” he said. His hair was black, his complexion florid, and his thick lips barely moved as he repeated his statement.
Ned, his hat held respectfully in front of him, took a deep breath. “Sir, Marty was the husband of one of your staff. I only thought it proper that I come to you first before I told Mrs. Reston she’s a widow.”
Squires waved a long cigar impatiently. “Can’t it wait, Mr. Stockton? I have half the village downstairs at this moment, and I fail to — ”
The Universe of Horror Volume 1: The Soft Whisper of the Dead (Neccon Classic Horror) Page 2