“You smell of manure,” Nan said as Billy put up the rake.
“You smell of beeswax and lemon,” he replied, “and you’ve got a bit of dirt on the tip of your nose.”
“Why don’t you go off,” she said. “You’re no prize, you know. I have other things to do this afternoon. I may not want you lugging about the place, getting in the way.”
“If you don’t want me I can go find Mary Anne Munsey. She’ll not be so impudent, you can bet on that.”
They argued playfully for a few minutes, both enjoying it immensely as they exchanged little insults and poked one another. They were like two children just turned out of school, and I felt suddenly very lonely as I stood there in the garden. I looked at the bright nasturtiums, red and yellow in their neat beds. The manure that Billy had spread steamed a little, filling the garden with a pungent odor.
“I think I’ll bake some bread,” Nan said. “You might keep me company in the kitchen, Billy Johnson. There are some knives that need to be sharpened, and you could make yourself useful while you’re lounging. Later on we might go for a stroll, but only if you behave yourself.”
The afternoon stretched ahead of me. It must be filled somehow. I did not want to rest. I did not want to stop and give myself any time to think and brood. Billy’s wagon was standing in front of the house. I decided to borrow it and drive in to Lockwood. It had been a long time since I had been to the village and a long, leisurely drive would be good for me. There was really nothing I needed in the way of provisions, but I could look at material in the dry goods store and later stop by and see Greg at the school. I had not seen him since the night of the ball, and I wanted very much to talk to him.
Nan and Billy were laughing merrily in the kitchen when I left. They would not even notice my absence, I thought. I had changed into a dress of white cotton, printed with tiny pink and green flowers, and I wore a broad brimmed white straw sun bonnet with dangling green ribbons, feeling rather festive in my fresh attire. Billy’s old dappled-gray horse moved slowly down the road. I held the reins loosely in my hand, letting the animal take his time. The limbs of the trees stretched overhead, and sunlight sifted through the rich green canopy to dapple the road with spots of yellow.
It was peaceful and lovely today, making yesterday’s nightmare seem all the more improbable. I had put it out of my mind as best I could. It would be foolish to dwell on the event, far better to forget it as soon as I could. It did not concern me. They would catch the highwaymen, and I would go on living in my house, tending my garden, enjoying the serenity and solitude of the place.
I averted my eyes as I passed Phoenix Hall. I did not want to look at it and be reminded. I wanted to forget. It seemed so unfair that my life here in Cornwall must be spoiled by the man who lived in that house. I thought of all the things he had done to plague me and it seemed almost too much to bear. He had tried to buy Dower House and then he had tried to frighten me away, and that had not worked either. I wondered what he would try next. Once the prospect of a good fight with him caused me to quicken with excitement. I had been ready to exchange sharp remarks, to match my wits against his, but I no longer even felt up to that.
Driving on, I saw a field of wild poppies on one side of the road. The flowers were tattered balls of golden orange, with deep red centers, and their odor was intoxicating, heady, making me almost drowsy. Above, the sky unfurled like a bolt of watered blue silk. The wagon jogged along the road, the gray’s hooves stirring up little coluds of dust. The intense sun had already evaporated every sign of yesterday’s rain.
I clicked the reins, a little anxious to get to the village. I wanted to talk to Greg. I wanted to tell him what had happened and hear his soothing voice tell me that it would all be all right. I wanted to see his gentle eyes and feel the protection of his presence. Our quarrel the night of the ball seemed utterly nonsensical now. It was hard to remember what it had all been about. Greg was wise. I needed his wisdom. He was confused. He needed my understanding. He had been very tired that night, and worried about his student. It was only natural that he be a little fretful. I wanted to see him and make amends.
The wagon rumbled over a small wooden bridge that spanned a stream. Two little boys sat on the bank below, under the shade of an oak tree, their bamboo poles dangling in the water. One of the poles jerked violently and the boy holding it pulled the line in, yelling with glee as a fat silver fish thrashed on the surface of the water. I smiled, happy. A world that held such innocence, such pure joy as that I had seen in the face of that child, could be no place for melancholy, and I drove on with lightened spirits.
Lockwood was brimming with activity as it usually was. Two donkeys were tethered in a vacant lot, braying loudly as a band of children ran about them. A group of men were holding an auction in the square, their weathered faces seamed with concentration as they listened to the bids and made their own. A husky lad in dusty clothes pushed a barrow heaped with cabbage and carrots towards the market, pursued by a furiously barking brown and white dog that snapped at his heels. I left Billy’s wagon in front of the tiny post office and strolled towards the dry goods store, pausing to examine some exquisite handmade lace that a wrinkled old woman displayed at a battered wooden booth.
Two shabby children stood in front of the bakery and candy store, their dirty faces pressed against the glass. They peered in at the stacks of tiny frosted cakes and the jars of colored rock candy, longing for the impossible. I impulsively took out some coins and placed them in the grubby little hands. Their eyes grew wide with incredulity at this sudden windfall, and they hesitated only a moment before racing inside.
The dry goods store was busy, but I was in no hurry. Farm women handled the coarse, sturdy materials that would suffice for their family’s clothes. A young girl stood dreamily examining strands of brightly colored ribbons. Village women looked at buttons and laces and bonnets, and all those who had no intentions of buying lingered to exchange gossip. This was the one place in Lockwood where the women would talk unabashedly about things their husbands might disapprove of their discussing. All the talk today was about the highwaymen and the body that had been found in the ravine, and I heard rather startling theories.
I spoke to no one. I was still an outsider. I examined bolts of bright printed cloth, paying more heed to what was being said than to the yards of cotton and linen I was handling. I learned that the dead man had lived near Devon and had been rarely seen in Lockwood. I heard that a group of officers from Scotland Yard was expected to arrive soon and that surveillance of the area had increased three times in strength. It was generally agreed that the bandits would be caught soon, if they had not already left the county. There was much speculation about who the “connection” in Lockwood could be. He had to be someone who had access to private information about finances and transport.
I head Roderick Mellory’s name mentioned.
It would be so easy to believe, I thought. I would have liked to believe it. He was an unscrupulous man. In his position he undoubtedly had access to all the information the highwaymen would need to know when and where to strike. He had certainly obtained a great deal of money just recently, or else he would not have been able to finance the repairs and embellishments at Phoenix Hall. He had certainly not been above trying to frighten me away from Dower House. Would a man who would not stop at terrorizing a defenseless woman stop at robbery—and murder?
It was foolish speculation on my part. I did not like the man, but I could not afford to let my personal feelings color my reasoning. The men and women of Lockwood had many reasons for detesting Roderick Mellory, but he was Roderick Mellory, one of Cornwall’s genuine aristocrats, and as such he was surely above suspicion.
As I left the store I heard another woman building a case against the local Catholic Abbe, listing motives and means, and I realized then just how foolish my thoughts were. When something like this happened in a village the size of Lockwood, it would be easy for hysteria to prevail, and no doubt
many personal grudges would be taken out and aired. That was all the more reason to remain calm and objective.
It was just a short walk from the dry goods store to the school. The sun was beginning its gradual decline, gilding the roofs with white gold and reflecting dazzling sunbursts from the bronze steeple of the Protestant Church. I knew that the school would be closed for the weekend, but I hoped Greg would be in his office. He spent much of his spare time there working on assignments, studying, grading papers. The schoolhouse looked deserted when I reached it. It was a large redstone building with well worn white marble steps and a small, dingy portico. There was a shabby bed of delphiniums in front, their blue petals limp, and the grass was already brown and patchy, well trodden by careless young feet.
There was no answer when I knocked on the huge front door. I rapped the tarnished brass lion’s head against the oak, standing there under the portico and listening to the pigeons cooing. Still there was no answer. Greg’s office was in back of the building, in one of the wings, and if he were there he probably would not be able to hear my knocking. I tried the door handle. It was not locked and the door swung open heavily, groaning a little on its hinges. The main hall was a vast tunnel of shadows, the only light coming from a small window at the other end where another had let to the wings on either side of the building.
I hesitated for a moment. I felt like an intruder. I could see an umbrella stand, a pair of discarded galoshes beside it, and an empty coat rack. The silence was heavy, so intense that I could hear myself breathing. I wanted to see Greg very badly. I felt I had to talk to him. If he was in his office he would not mind my coming in like this, and if he was not no one would know I had been here. I cleared my throat, looking down the long dark hall.
I knew that it was silly to just stand there. I had come in to Lockwood especially to see Greg, and it would be ridiculous to go away now because no one had answered my knock. I squared my shoulders and began to walk down the hall. The heels of my shoes tapped loudly on the tiles. The noise echoed all around me. I had the curious feeling that the very walls of the empty school were watching me and listening, just waiting for some kind of signal to spring to life. It was an eerie sensation. I supposed it was typical of all old buildings ordinarily filled with activity, but it was a bit unnerving just the same.
I hesitated at the end of the hall, trying to remember in which wing of the building Greg’s office was located. Now that my footsteps were not ringing on the tiles, the silence seemed even more oppressive. Light leaked in faintly from the window, showing me rows of doors, all of them closed. A boy had left a satchel of books on the floor, a dark blue school cap resting on top of them. I could smell chalk dust and the smell of ink and leather and bodies, mixed with the sharp, acrid odor of an apple that some child had left in his desk and long since forgotten.
“Greg,” I called. My voice sounded faint and timid.
There was no reply but an echo that rang for a moment and then died. I caught my breath. It was foolish to be frightened, yet I felt that something was waiting for me, something unpleasant. It was cool here inside, the air stale, untouched by the sun, and I felt a chill rise up my spine. I felt suddenly weak, unable to move. It was impossible to turn back and go down that hall towards the door where I had entered. It was equally impossible to go looking for Greg’s office down these long corridors.
I was admonishing myself for this silly apprehension when I heard the door opening. It came from somewhere down the hall leading to the library. The door was creaking on its hinges as though it were being opened slowly, stealthily. Although there were windows down this intersecting hall, they were set high up and afforded very little light. The shadows were thick, and they seemed to move. The creaking stopped and I heard footsteps. Someone was coming down the hall towards me, moving slowly and cautiously and keeping close to the wall where the light would not reveal him.
I was frozen, too frightened to even cry out. I leaned against the wall, under the window, waiting. The footsteps came nearer, then they stopped. I could feel a pair of eyes studying me.
“Miss Todd?”
I looked up. The man had stopped a few yards away. The light showed his face, and it was as startled as my own must have been. I recognized the man as Mr. Stephenson, Greg’s colleague. His eyebrows were lifted in surprise and his lips were parted. I noticed that he was clutching a small bronze figurine as though it were a bludgeon.
“Whatever are you doing here?” he asked. His voice was shaky. It was obvious that he was as unnerved as I had been.
“Mr. Stephenson—you gave me such a fright. I came to see Greg—Mr. Ingram. I thought he would be working in his office. No one answered my knock, but the door was open. I came on in.”
“I see.” He was plainly relieved. “I thought I heard someone knocking, but I couldn’t imagine what anyone would want at this hour. I assumed it was my imagination.”
“I’m sorry if I gave you a start.”
“You gave me more than that, my dear young woman. I was ready to hit someone over the head with this Apollo.” He looked down at the figurine in his hand. “Well, it seems we’ve both been shaken up. You are quite pale, Miss Todd. It couldn’t have been very pleasant hearing someone stalk you down the hall.” He smiled faintly.
“It wasn’t,” I assured him. returning the smile. “Is Mr. Ingram in his office?”
“Didn’t you know? He had to return to Liverpool, or so he said. His brother seems to have undone all the good he accomplished on the first trip down.”
“I didn’t know,” I said, feeling rather hurt that Greg had not told me. “When did he leave?”
“Yesterday morning. Quite early. Before dawn, in fact. His brother must be quite a case; surprising when Ingram himself is such a fine young person—high ideals. If he had any sense he would let the man stew in his own porridge, but I suppose family loyalty is admirable.”
“Did he say when he would be returning to Lockwood?”
“In a day or so, he hoped.”
“Well, I suppose it was urgent. That’s why he didn’t have time to inform me. I really came to inquire about the boy, Mr. Stephenson. How is he?”
“The boy? What are you talking about?”
“The lad who was taken ill night before last. Greg was very upset. He left Mr. Mellory’s ball in order to come see about the child.”
“There has been no illness in the school,” Mr. Stephenson said. He looked at me curiously, as though I were making up the episode.
I did not wish to pursue the matter. If Greg had lied to me, there must have been a good reason for it. I doubted seriously if he had gone to Liverpool because of his brother. More than likely his sudden departure had something to do with the mysterious business transaction he had been so excited about the night of the ball.
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” I said. “I must have misunderstood him. I hope you will forgive me my intrusion, Mr. Stephenson. I feel I owe you an apology.”
“Please forget it, Miss Todd.”
“I wonder if I could go to Mr. Ingram’s office for a few minutes? There is a book he promised to lend me, and I would like to leave him a note. Would it be an inconvenience to you?”
“Of course not. I’ll show you the way.”
Mr. Stephenson led me down the hall and pointed out Greg’s office. The door was locked, but he had a master key that opened it. I felt even more like an intruder as I watched the staid little man opening the door, but I felt I had to leave a note and I did want to borrow Greg’s copy of Jane Eyre.
“I will be in the library if you need me,” Mr. Stephenson said, holding the door open.
“I’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll find my way out. Please don’t let me bother you any more.”
Mr. Stephenson nodded his head, looking at me again with that curious expression. He walked on down the hall, and I stood in the office, listening to his footsteps dying away. The shade was pulled up high, and the last rays of sunlight poured into the small room
, revealing an oak bookcase crammed with books and pamphlets, a work table, a sturdy desk and a shabby easy chair upholstered in dark blue. There was a well worn magenta carpet on the floor and an assorted collection of framed engravings on the wall.
I felt uneasy. It was wrong to invade Greg’s private domain like this while he was away, and I felt dishonest, but now that I was here my curiosity would not let me leave. The room reflected the man, neat, orderly, dignified, a little worn but revealing cultured taste. I browsed over the book case and found a copy of the Bronte novel. I took it out and went over to the desk to write the note.
There was a green felt ink blotter on the desk, an onyx pen set, a chunk of quartz holding down a stack of student papers. I did not see a tablet or any writing paper, so I opened the top drawer, feeling just a tinge of guilt. There was no tablet. There were more student papers and a notebook filled with columns and columns of figures, with dates beside each entry. I supposed this was the book he kept to list student fees or something of the sort.
The second drawer held the tablet I was looking for, but I did not take it out. Instead, I took out Aunt Lucille’s notebooks. There was a sheaf of papers on top, clipped together and covered with Greg’s handwriting. I wondered if he had possibly broken the code. I spread the papers out over the desk and sat down, leaning my elbows on the desk and reading the closely written pages.
I do not know how long I may have read. The sunlight that came through the windows took on a vivid orange glow and then began to fade, and outside the heavy veils of twilight began to fall, blurring everything together in a haze of blue. There was barely enough light left for me to see by. I sat there at the desk, trying to put my thoughts in order. A flood of hysteria threatened to overcome me. I knew I could not let that happen.
I turned through the pages of the notebooks, rereading various entries scrawled messily in black ink. At first I had not understood the references to money taken in, to time schedules, to various roads and villages. They had been interspersed with tedious essays about the properties of herbs and rather amusing anecdotes about the peculiarities of the people who came to see my aunt about potions and powders.
The Master of Phoenix Hall Page 17