by Jade Astor
Malcolm wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood. “Well, it’s about time I got moving. I’ll bring the car around, so just come out to the front steps when you’re ready, Stephen. I’ll pull up close so you won’t have to sprint too far through the rain.”
Grateful as Stephen felt toward the Fairbournes for the room and breakfast, he was even more grateful to escape the breakfast table. After finishing his food, he made his excuses and rushed back to the guestroom for his wallet, which he had no intention of leaving behind this time.
While he rummaged through his open suitcase, which he had transferred to the top of the dresser, a shadow fell across the bed. He snapped upright, startled, to find Justin waiting on the threshold.
“Sorry I startled you. I wanted to talk to you before you left. I ticked you off the last time I was up here, didn’t I? I’m sorry about that.”
Stephen sighed. “I think I might have been more to blame than you were. I pushed you about the library project. I’m sorry I did that. Can we discuss it later, though? Your cousin and my uncle are both waiting for me.”
“So let them wait.” Justin crossed the room, one arm outstretched. “I know I overreacted. You have to understand, though, that keeping secrets is a way of life around here. I’m a product of my environment, just like you are. You’ll get along much better here if you never forget that.”
Stephen shoved his wallet into his jeans. He saw Justin’s eyes flick below his waist, momentarily lighting up with obvious desire. That surprised him, considering Justin could have burned to death only hours earlier. Then again, from what he had heard, surviving mortal danger sometimes made people eager to celebrate life in just that way. If he were being totally honest with himself, Stephen felt a strong tug of physical desire for Justin, too. But there was no time to deal with that now.
“I’m really glad you’re okay after what happened last night, Justin. But right now I have to go.”
Justin stepped aside to clear Stephen’s path to the door. “We can talk again when you get back,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere, you know.”
“Yeah.” Stephen’s determination faltered, just for a moment. “See you then.”
Justin leaned forward, gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and disappeared back into the hallway. By the time Stephen followed him out, he was gone. Had he returned to his torched room?
As promised, Malcolm had pulled his white BMW as close to the garden path as he could. Even so, the rain came down so fast and hard that Stephen’s feet were damp by the time he had dashed to the passenger side.
“Nasty day for sure,” Malcolm said as they waited for Leo, his face hidden in a hooded yellow slicker, to open the Serpent’s Gate and let them out. Water streamed off his head and broad shoulders as he unhooked the metal clasp. “At least you won’t be missing much by spending a few hours in the hospital.”
“I hope Uncle Vernon’s doing okay. He must hate having to lie in bed with nurses fussing over him. That’s not his style at all.”
“Well, sometimes we need to let other people take charge of us,” Malcolm reflected. “Can’t always be in control. Ah, Leo’s finally done. Takes a bit longer in this sort of weather, I suppose.”
“What does he do in the winter?” Stephen asked as the car began to move forward again. “Doesn’t it freeze shut?”
Malcolm shrugged. “He manages. Strong as an ox, that one. Good thing he’s docile and obedient.”
Leo touched his forehead in a mock salute as the car eased past him. A twinge of apprehension flickered through Stephen at the sight of his bulldoggish face peering out from under the hood. It reminded him of the hideous robed figures in his dream. Then Malcolm hit the gas and they shot out toward the road. Wet gravel sprayed up on both sides of the car.
“So tell me the truth,” Malcolm said. “What do you really think of Fairbourne House? Both the architecture and the people.”
“Well…” Stephen sensed he wouldn’t settle for any bland platitudes expressing gratitude and appreciation. He wanted a real answer. “I’ve never seen a place quite like it.”
“That’s for sure. You never will again, either. Fairbourne House is one of a kind. But go on. What’s your opinion of Roark? Sometimes I wonder if he’s a time traveler who stepped out of one of those old portraits in the foyer. He’d fit right in with that powdered-wig set.”
Stephen thought of the three grim-faced judges in the painting of Obadiah Fairbourne’s trial. Would Roark, the youthful master of the local manor, have sat among them if he’d lived in that time? Would he have authorized Obadiah’s torture and execution?
“He seems to have a lot on his shoulders,” he settled for saying.
“He took over the estate at a young age, but he’ll manage. He’s sharp and sensible. And soon he’ll have a law degree. That always helps.”
This might be his best chance to pose some questions he wouldn’t dare ask either brother. “I think he misses his mother,” he ventured. “Justin said Mrs. Fairbourne lives in England now.”
“Oh, yes, dear cousin Fiona. I often wonder how she’s doing these days. I suspect she’s a lot happier in England than she ever could be here. The boys miss her, I’m sure, but they know better than to ask her back. Not that she’d consider it.”
“She didn’t like it here?”
“That’s one way to put it. It wasn’t her fault, though. They had an arranged marriage. Believe it or not, those still exist in today’s world, at least among certain segments of the population.”
Stephen had known that, of course, but he decided to play innocent. He remembered the way Roark had explained it. “You mean rich people.”
“Among other types. In this case, the connection between the two families goes back all the way to the Old World. Fiona’s ancestors settled in Canada after they left England, and Owen Fairbourne’s came here. Plenty of people on both sides thought they’d be a perfect match. And it did work, for a while. The genetics were certainly compatible, even if Fiona and Owen weren’t. Those two boys are testament to that. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how handsome and clever both of them are.”
“Well…yes. Their personalities seem so different, though.”
“No question. I’m not saying they’re like their parents, because Owen had nothing approaching Justin’s sense of humor, among other things. Maybe it’s more a matter of influence.”
Stephen shook his head in wonder. “I can’t imagine a mother leaving two sons forever. Doesn’t she visit them…or at least email once in a while?”
“No. But you shouldn’t judge her harshly. I’m sure she’d prefer to keep in touch with her sons. He just…can’t.”
“Why not? Is she sick or something?”
“You wouldn’t ask that if you’d ever met Fiona. She’s one of the strongest women ever to walk this earth—both mentally and physically. She’s one of those people everyone turns to look at the moment she enters a room.” Malcolm’s voice trailed off and he grew wistful as he gazed off into the rain. Stephen fidgeted. Had he been crushed out on his cousin’s wife? Could a scandalous affair have disrupted the Fairbourne marriage? If so, why did Roark continue to invite Malcolm to the house—assuming he knew?
“What happened, then?” he pressed. “Why can’t she come back?”
“Because she’s afraid,” Malcolm said.
The answer struck Stephen as absurd. Such a reason seemed totally at odds with the resourceful personality Malcolm described. “Afraid of what? Her husband? But he died.”
“Oh, she could handle Owen just fine. The threat he sensed came from another source entirely. Fiona was smart enough to recognize a warning when she saw one. She heeded it and never looked back. That’s probably the reason she’s alive today.”
The calm, matter-of-fact way he said it made Stephen shiver. He could hardly get the words out because they sounded so bizarre. “Mrs. Fairbourne thought her life was in danger?”
“She didn’t just think so. She knew it beyo
nd any reasonable doubt, as they say in the courtroom. Sadly, though, the case wasn’t tried in court. Fiona had to handle things on her own. Fleeing seemed the best way to do that. So she did.”
“I take it you aren’t going to tell me who threatened her.”
“I’d be happy to if I knew for certain. All I can tell you is that Fiona felt that house was too dangerous for her to stay. Just before she left, someone died there. She sensed that if she didn’t leave when she did, she’d be next.”
“Are you talking about the gardener who fell off the roof? Leo and Ivy’s father?”
“So you have heard the story.”
“A little of it. You don’t think he was the one, do you? Could he have lured Mrs. Fairbourne up there somehow…tried to push her off and then lost his own footing?”
“I can’t imagine that would drive her from the house. After all, once he was dead, what more had she to fear? No… something else convinced her. For now, I have only suspicions. But they don’t involve the late Mr. Mulgrave.”
Stephen struggled to make sense of Malcolm’s wild tale. Maybe, like Justin with his description of the man being crushed to death by the Serpent’s Gate, Malcolm was trying to scare him for sport. The Fairbourne certainly had odd ways of entertaining themselves.
At the hospital, Malcolm accompanied his to his uncle’s room and left him with a promise to return in two hours. Uncle Vernon seemed much more himself today. The strong painkillers had worn off and his eyes were clear and focused. He remained predictably frustrated at being confined to one room.
“Even when I get out, they say I’ll have to limit my activities,” he complained. “No lifting or climbing on stepladders for months, though I can sit behind the front desk. Apparently these doctors have never been to a real bookstore if they think that’s all there is to it!”
“I’ll help you with the store, Uncle Vernon. Not just me, but maybe Geoffrey too. You’ll be back to normal in no time.”
Uncle Vernon’s face hardened. “We’re not going to talk about Geoffrey again.”
Stephen blushed. “I think you should know that I called him and told him what happened.”
“Stephen!” Uncle Vernon struggled to sit up, but only made it halfway and gave up. “How could you do that? You must have known how strenuously I would object!”
“That’s why I didn’t ask you first. But I thought Geoffrey deserved to have the information. What he does with it is up to him.”
“Well, he hasn’t called. So perhaps he has come to his senses where I am concerned after all.”
Stephen was sure he detected a note of disappointment. He shook his head in exasperation. “The two of you always had so much to talk about. You could spend hours together in the store and never get tired of each other’s company. I can’t see why you don’t want to preserve at least his friendship. Plus he could help you with the store now that you might need an extra pair of hands.”
“Because friendship will never be enough where he is concerned. And now I must ask you again to drop this subject. You and I will simply make the best of things when we return. Besides, the store is only part of what I’m worried about. What’s going to happen with the Fairbourne library? Probably get someone else to catalogue it now. All that hard work down the drain because I couldn’t keep my balance!” Uncle Vernon scowled and his eyes moistened with frustration. “Been up on a ladder hundreds of times. Nothing different about that one. But I couldn’t get the job done. Maybe I should consider retiring, after all. Your father would like that.”
“Only because he’s worried about you. Your heart attack really threw him for a loop. Anyway, the thing with the ladder could have happened to anyone. You probably got too absorbed in what you were doing and leaned over too far. Or maybe you were coming down and missed a step.”
“Well, now, that’s just the thing. I admit I don’t know exactly how it happened, but I wasn’t moving at all. I hadn’t reached for a book and I hadn’t started climbing down. I was examining an especially fine edition of Pope’s Iliad, I believe. I heard a sort of creaking sound, as though the ladder was settling against the floor. The next thing I knew, I was flat on the floor and in terrible pain.”
Stephen nodded. Frankly, it sounded as though his uncle had become disoriented and lost his footing. He had probably tried to overcompensate and tipped the ladder sideways. It was a miracle Uncle Vernon hadn’t been killed or suffered another heart attack, which would have probably amounted to the same thing. He had no intention of telling Uncle Vernon any of that, however. Right now he needed support, not more to worry about.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Uncle Vernon. I should have come back much sooner.”
“Not your fault. Put that right out of your mind. I brought you along to assist me—not to act as my nursemaid. The day I need one of those, feel free to smother me with a pillow!”
“Uncle Vernon, don’t talk like that. Of course you don’t need a nursemaid. And as far as the Fairbournes go, they definitely want us to continue with the library. They understand this is a minor setback. They’ll wait until you’re able to complete the work.”
“I trust you are correct.” Uncle Vernon brightened a little. “I don’t intend to see Carlyle’s Antiquarian Books go up in smoke because some doddering old fool can’t keep himself upright.”
Stephen winced at the mention of smoke. Uncle Vernon noticed. Gruffly he cleared his throat. “What’s going on with the Fairbourne books, anyway? Did you finish the ones we set aside, at least?”
“I haven’t done anything since…well, since we stopped working together. Everything’s just the way we left it.” He paused. That wasn’t quite true, of course. Suddenly he felt he had to come clean to someone. “Uncle Vernon…what would you say if—hypothetically speaking—I discovered that one of the books from the Fairbourne library wasn’t where it ought to be? You know, after both of us left the room yesterday.”
“What?” Uncle Vernon lifted himself off his pillow, agitated. “Something’s missing? Not one of the first editions, I hope!”
“No, no, nothing like that. It was an older book with a bunch of handwritten pages bound inside. The whole thing was sort of…strange. I had put it aside so I could show it to you later, but with everything that happened I never got around to it. When I checked again later, someone had moved it off the table where I left it.”
“Handwritten? Strange contents?” Uncle Vernon rubbed the white stubble on his chin. No one had brought his shaving razor that morning, and his pink face was a garden of bristles. He jerked his hand away with distaste. “Such a volume would be of no value except to collectors with tastes that run in a certain eccentric direction. No reason one of the Fairbournes couldn’t remove it. The contents of the library are their property, after all.”
“True. It’s just that I can’t imagine anyone would want to remove this one. It’s not the sort of thing anyone would—or could—just sit down and read.”
“Well, tastes vary, you know. You could simply ask the Fairbournes if any of them have it. I doubt there’s any cause for concern.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Wouldn’t have happened if I had been there as I should,” Uncle Vernon grumbled. Stephen decided to change the subject before he got upset and stressed. They talked about innocuous matters until Malcolm Argyle arrived to pick him up again.
“Did you have a nice visit?” he asked as they walked back to his car.
“Yes. My uncle seems to be doing much better.”
“Glad to hear it.” Malcolm smiled as he pressed his key fob to unlock the doors. As Stephen got in, he recalled how Malcolm had disappeared right after he and Uncle Vernon had shared coffee in the garden. Malcolm had most likely been asking Uncle Vernon about the rare books, and Stephen knew Uncle Vernon would be happy to describe them. Could Malcolm have slipped into the library, spotted the unusual book on the table, and taken it after they’d bundled Uncle Vernon off in the ambulance? Might he hav
e been acting on behalf of Roark and Justin’s mother?
A darker possibility struck him as they pulled out into traffic. Maybe the book hadn’t disappeared after Uncle Vernon had gone to the hospital. Maybe someone had grabbed it while he lay on the floor, groaning and disoriented. It wasn’t as though Stephen had thought to check after he’d found his uncle hurt.
“Looks like the sky’s clearing up,” Malcolm said cheerfully.
“Yes.” Stephen forced himself to smile. “About time, isn’t it?”
Chapter 12
“Leo must have left his post for some reason,” Malcolm said while they waited in front of the closed gates. Istharios’s ugly maw, glistening with rain, leered at them through the windshield. “I should have called ahead. Guess I’ll have to do it myself.”
“I can help you,” Stephen offered, reaching for the door handle. Malcolm held up a hand to stop him.
“No, don’t bother. It will only take a moment.”
Malcolm stepped into the rain, which had thankfully slowed to a drizzle, and wrestled with the iron bars until they parted far enough to allow the car through. He struggled a bit, reminding Stephen how impressive Leo’s physical strength must be. Malcolm returned with is raincoat spattered with water and dirt. He examined his smudged and grimy palms with distaste and wiped them on a tissue from the center console.
“Why don’t they install an automatic opener?” Stephen asked as he eased the car through without bothering to close it up after them.
“My cousin Owen preferred things this way. He found it sort of medieval and quaint, like the old walled cities of Europe. Roark may change it one day, but guarding it gives Leo something to do when they don’t want him hanging around at the house. Not that he’s doing a very good job of that today.”
They proceeded slowly up the driveway, the tires thumping in and out of the deep puddles pitting the gravel. “The rain’s leveled off, but the ground’s plenty wet. I’ll drop you as close as I can and turn around. I need to go my office for a while. I can clean the mud off my shoes there and escape Mrs. Mulgrave’s wrath.”