Betrayal at Blackcrest

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  2

  Hawkestown was a tiny place, what businesses there were centered around a little square in the center of town. Behind these were some impressive-looking homes and, farther away, several neat cottages sheltered by huge oak trees. The oak trees grew everywhere, and in summer Hawkestown would be shady and cool. A capricious river wound through the town, and the road passed over several stone bridges. Although it was not yet nine, the town seemed shut down and asleep, with only a few squares of yellow light showing through the windows. I had an impression of a place lost to time, untouched by the frantic modern pace of today. It was the kind of town one would love to visit for two weeks of rest. During the third week claustrophobia would set in.

  I was sure it had enormous charm by day, with its gardens and rustic buildings, but now it was all black and gray, gilded with moonlight. I could see the dark shapes of trees and the glittering silver ribbon of river that twisted and turned through the town. I drove past the square and saw the tarnished bronze statue of a man on horseback that stood directly in the middle of it, several farm wagons pulled up around it. I saw the post office and bank, a drugstore, and the cinema where Alex Tanner had witnessed the Rank disaster. I passed a few large private homes set behind picket fences, and then the road wound through a wooded area. My gas tank showed empty, while my stomach growled in protest of its recent lack of sustenance. I was beginning to despair of filling either.

  Hawkestown certainly had little to offer the weary traveler. It was completely off the beaten track, far away from any of the modern highway arteries, and quite obviously, no tourist attraction. I wondered if any place was open. I had to get directions to Blackcrest, and if possible, phone to announce my arrival. The motor began to jerk and sputter, and the gasgauge needle danced maddeningly about the E. I visualized myself stranded again, with no handsome Alex around to help. I gnawed my lower lip nervously. Then I saw the lights ahead.

  The place was low and flat, standing in the middle of an expanse of crushed-white-shell pavement, and garishly colored lights spilled out of every window. A bright ruby-red neon sign flashed on and off, promising FOOD, and three pale blue petrol pumps stood before the wooden canopy in front of the main entrance. Several cars were parked at the side of the building. Even as I pulled up in front of one of the pumps I could hear pop music blaring loudly.

  It was a heavenly sight, however incongruous with the rest of the neighborhood. Even Hawkestown, I surmised, couldn’t completely escape the twentieth century. A boy came out of the building to assist me, and he suited the mood of the place ideally. He wore too-tight black pants, a black leather jacket that was too shiny, and a sullen scowl that went with the outfit. His dark blond hair was worn too long, in the fashion of current London youth, and he had all the earmarks of the rude, rowdy young men who seemed to delight in making nuisances of themselves before going up to Oxford and, ultimately, becoming the backbone of the nation. I smiled tolerantly as he swaggered over to the car and twisted his lips into a sneer that many would have considered threatening.

  “Yeah?” he muttered.

  “Do you sell petrol?” I asked.

  “These pumps ain’t for ornament,” he growled.

  I blinked at the grammar and looked up at him with eyes that I hoped were very blue and innocent. The boy stood beside the car with his hands jammed in his pockets, his head cocked a little to one side. His eyes were dark brown, glowing, surrounded by long curling lashes that somewhat lessened their animal ferocity. The eyes were a startling contrast to the thick blond hair, and ferocious expression notwithstanding, the boy was unusually attractive. He was tall, with a muscular build, and he had that redblooded glow of the very young that no amount of posturing could disguise.

  “You want petrol, lady?” he said, impatient.

  “If you could see your way clear—” I began.

  “Shall I fill ’er up?”

  “Please do,” I replied, very gracious. “Is there a place where I could freshen up a bit?”

  He jerked his head, indicating a walk that wound around behind the building. I assumed it led to the rest rooms. I got out of the car and took a small overnight case out of the trunk. The boy was pulling a hose over to the gas tank, and he ignored me completely as I walked past him and around the pale blue pumps.

  The rest room was small but well lighted, all done in green tiles. There was a large mirror hanging over the sink, and I blanched when I finally got around to looking in it. No cinema star ever looked so pale and frightening. I was frankly surprised that Alex Tanner hadn’t turned and run. My makeup had worn off and my hair hung in limp, damp ringlets about a face I liked to think classical in shape. I took my hairbrush out of the case and attacked the hair. After a while it began to take on some of the shape and texture I was ordinarily so proud of. I wore it long and it fell in natural waves of russet shade with deep copper highlights. I put the brush aside and tossed my head, satisfied with the way the locks fell.

  It took me a little longer to apply the makeup. I wanted to look my best when I confronted Delia and her husband. I worked diligently, finally stepping back to survey the results. They were pleasing. The face that had impressed Alex Tanner so much when he saw it on the screen would never be beautiful in the traditional sense, but I liked to tell myself that character and bone structure were more important. I had high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips that were a little too wide. My eyes were large, set wide apart, deep blue with a hint of green. The lashes were long and curling and the brows made perfect cinnamon-colored arches over lids that were shadowed ever so slightly with jade.

  The face would never launch a thousand ships, but in its time it had graced several dozen beer advertisements with profitable and unexpected results. The movie director had seen my face on a billboard, and finding that I was tall and slender as well as photogenic, had hired me for the small part in his film. History was not made, but my bank account was fattened considerably.

  I had brought a pair of shabby pink low-heeled shoes in the case. I removed the ruined white heels, unceremoniously and regretfully dumped them in the garbage bin, and put on the clean ones. I felt much better, ready now to face anything.

  I went inside the building. The first thing I saw was a jukebox. It was also the first thing I heard. A rock group were yelling about an unrequited love affair, and as the record spun two teen-age girls sitting at the counter snapped their fingers and shook their shoulders with the music. There were several dark booths along one wall, and I sat at one of them, contemplating the delights of hamburger, french fries, and hot coffee. When I saw the plate of food the waitress set before one of the girls, I decided to settle for coffee.

  The waitress took my order, and I looked around at the hot spot of Hawkestown. It obviously catered to teen-agers, for I was the only adult in evidence. A group of youngsters huddled at one of the booths, while another group surrounded the jukebox, ready to drop in more coins just as soon as the final scream of the current record threatened a moment of silence. The girls all wore miniskirts or slacks suits, rainbow-colored. The boys were dressed in attire similar to that of the young gallant who had waited on me outside.

  He came in through the front door. The girls sitting at the counter giggled and nudged one another. I heard one of them call him Neil. Neil was very aware of the attention focused on him. He ran his brown fingers through the shaggy blond hair and curled his lips as he moved past the girls on his way to speak to the waitress. As he spoke to the woman, he glared at the girls with hostile brown eyes. His disdain was obvious, even to them. They both squirmed and seemed to adore him even more.

  Knighthood is no longer in flower, I said to myself as I stirred my coffee.

  I noticed a telephone booth in one corner, and I was about to make inquiries about Blackcrest when the front door opened and a young girl came in. She was so breathtakingly lovely that I paused, openly staring at her.

  She was painfully young, surely not more than seventeen, and she moved acro
ss the room with all the grace and hesitancy of a young doe. I had never seen such grace of movement, so fluid and natural that it approached artistry. Her hair was platinum, with that glossy sheen that can never come from a bottle, pinned up on her head in lustrous waves. Her features were delicate, fragile, the enormous eyes gentian blue, the lips as pink and perfectly shaped as a rosebud. She wore a white raincoat belted at the waist, and she looked as out of place in this motley assortment of youngsters as a fairy child among gremlins.

  She moved over to the counter where Neil was standing. Everyone in the place stared at her, but she did not seem to notice. Her eyes were on the boy behind the counter, and the place might have been empty except for him. Neil shifted uneasily, glancing around distastefully as the girl approached. The girl whispered something to him, and he shot her a warning look that clearly told her to be careful what she said.

  The girl stepped back. Her incredible blue eyes looked as if they might dissolve with tears. She stood with her shoulders hunched up, as though expecting a blow. I had never seen anything so touching in my life. The boy jerked his head, indicating that she should go back outside, and she left the room as silently and gracefully as she had come in. I watched the door swing to behind her, and I was moved by the episode, which seemed as tragic and poignant as anything I had ever seen in the theater.

  I slid out of the booth and walked over to the counter.

  “Could you tell me where I could find the home of Derek Hawke?” I asked the waitress.

  She arched an eyebrow and gave me a look that could only be called incredulous. The boy called Neil was standing nearby, and the waitress turned to him as though expecting some special instruction. Neil gave a quick glance at the door that had just closed on the girl; then he moved along behind the counter until he was standing beside the waitress. They both stared at me.

  “I believe it’s called Blackcrest,” I said, puzzled.

  “Everyone knows where Blackcrest is,” the boy said.

  “Few people ask how to get there, though,” the waitress added.

  “You intend to go there?” the boy asked rudely.

  “Of course not,” the waitress said. “She merely wants to know where it is.”

  I felt like asking if they were in vaudeville. I tapped my foot impatiently.

  “Is the number in the phone book?” I asked.

  “Phone lines blew down in the rainstorm,” the waitress said. “The crew’re workin’ on them now, but they won’t be back up for hours. Besides, it’s an unlisted number.”

  “Swell,” I said. “You’ve been a great help.”

  The waitress blinked dumbly, and the boy continued to stare at me. His look was not hostile now. It was wary. He seemed to be examining me for defects. I felt my cheeks flush with irritation. I had asked a relatively simple question. Judging from the reactions to it, I might have inquired where the body was buried. After a moment the boy lowered his eyes and spoke in a voice that was both polite and somber.

  “Blackcrest is about a mile on down the road,” the boy said. “You drive on the way you’re headed, and you come to a bridge. Beyond that, you’ll see a turnoff between two stone pillars. You turn there. It’s a private drive.”

  “Thank you,” I replied icily.

  The boy moved away, and I settled the bill for the petrol and coffee with the waitress. She was a plump creature with a bovine pink face. A pair of golden earrings dangled from her earlobes, and her jaws moved around a wad of gum. She stared at me with frank curiosity as she took my money and returned the change.

  “Not many people go to Blackcrest,” she remarked as I dropped the coins in my purse.

  “Oh?”

  “The Hawke don’t like havin’ people around.”

  “The Hawke? You mean Mr. Derek Hawke?”

  “The same. He don’t like havin’ people hangin’ around. He don’t like people, period.”

  I snapped my purse shut and regarded her with lifted brow.

  “I’m sure he’ll just adore me,” I remarked caustically. “I know all sorts of tricks.”

  The waitress blinked again, and I swept out of the room, almost colliding with a girl in purple slacks and a long-haired lad with a guitar slung over his shoulder. I closed the door behind me, glad to shut off some of the din. For some reason or other, the rubyred neon with its fraudulent promise was no longer flashing, and it was relatively dark as I walked around the pumps to my car.

  The air was cool and fresh, doubly welcome after the odors inside. I stood with my hand on the door handle, breathing deeply. The moon was behind a bank of clouds, and as I watched, it broke loose from its concealment and poured silver light from the heavens. I looked at the sky, a gray velvet expanse filled with ponderous black clouds. Silver spilled from the ragged edges of the clouds. There was a milky glow in the air, and everything below was picked out in shades of black and gray, silver, and dark blue.

  I started to open the car door when I heard the voices. They were quite near, and at first I was startled. They were coming from the side of the building. From where I stood I could barely see two shapes leaning against the wall there.

  “It’s out of the question, Honora. We’ll have to wait.”

  “I’ve been waiting for over a year. I can’t wait any longer.”

  “You’ll have to.”

  “I won’t!” The voice was desperate. “I’ll leave without you. You don’t care anyway. You’d like for me to do that. Then you’d be free of me. You wouldn’t have to worry—”

  “Shut up!”

  A ray of moonlight illuminated the spot where they stood. The girl in the white raincoat was leaning against the wall, flattened against it as though for protection. Most of her body was hidden by the boy who stood directly in front of her, his palms resting along the wall beside her arms, his body hovering over hers. His legs were planted wide apart, and his broad shoulders encased in shiny black leather hid her face.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said. His voice was angry. He might have been admonishing a disobedient child. “If they found out—”

  “I don’t care,” she protested. “I want them to know. I want everyone to know. I have a right—”

  “Not for a few months you don’t,” he retorted. “If you’re not careful—”

  “You don’t care anything about me,” she said, and her voice was suddenly calm. “It isn’t me you’re interested in, is it? That’s what he says. It’s the money. That’s the only reason—”

  Her voice stopped abruptly, as though a hand had been clamped over it, or a pair of lips. I climbed into the car and started the motor. I felt guilty for having eavesdropped for as long as I had. The boy had evidently wanted privacy or he would not have switched off the neon. My insatiable curiosity about other people had forced me to linger there a moment, listening. The constant cavalcade of drama in the life around me never failed to intrigue. There was romance and excitement even in such a forgotten place as Hawkestown, it seemed.

  Beyond the fuel station and café, the road wound through more wooded area. The headlights made dim yellow spears that cut across the dark black trunks of trees. The road was narrow and poorly paved, full of ruts and holes. Water stood in low places, splashing loudly as I passed over them. I was still worried about the tires. Another blowout would be disastrous now. This road made the other look like a superhighway, and I was certain no one would come zooming past in a sports car. I gave a little sigh of relief as I passed over the stone bridge. A bit farther down the road I saw the two towering stone pillars and turned off on the road between them.

  If it was a private road, it was certainly kept up better than the public one. The tires purred over the smooth expanse. The road twisted and turned with an alarming number of curves, and huge trees grew close on either side. I wondered if it would never end. I went around another curve, fully expecting to see the house, but there was only more road. I had begun to think the boy had sent me on a wild-goose chase, but then I passed t
hrough two more stone pillars, smaller than the others. The trees fell away, to be replaced by evergreens and formal shrubs. The road ended, and I was on a great crushed-shell drive. I held my breath. Blackcrest stood before me in all its towering majesty.

  3

  I had never seen anything so immense and formidable. Delia had described the house to me from a picture her future husband had shown her, but the description had prepared me for nothing like this. The main section of the house was three stories high. On both sides of it a wing branched off, winding around to the back, where a tower jutted up over the roofs. Part of the tower had crumbled away, but it still reared up in Gothic splendor. Washed now with moonlight, the dark blue slate roofs gleamed silver, the chimneys and turrets and abutments casting long black shadows. Blackcrest was constructed of heavy blocks of dark gray stone with all the tortured carvings and corners of an era long since vanished. The windows were like flat black eyes staring down at me. Tendrils of dark green ivy covered half of the front, the leaves rattling like sheets of metal in the wind.

  I parked the car in front of the immense black marble portico, marveling at the impressive ugliness of a mansion that had been standing for over two hundred years. The place was intimidating. It seemed to be watching me, waiting to swallow me up. It had an aura of evil and age that was almost tangible, and I was irritated to find my shoulders trembling slightly as I moved up the steps under the portico. The porch was a nest of shadows. Drafts of cold air blew my hair. The door was black oak, polished smooth with age, and in dead center of it a brass knocker shaped like a hawk hung heavily on a brass ring. The brass was icy when I touched it. I pounded on the door, trying not to think of the stories of Edgar Allan Poe I had once read so avidly.

  I could hear the noise of the knocker echoing in the hall beyond the door, and when I stopped knocking the silence was heavy, as though someone just inside stood poised, listening. I found it impossible to believe that anyone as bright and vivacious as Delia could actually live in such a place. I lifted the heavy knocker again, pounding it against the wood. Still no one came. I would have returned to the car, but for some strange reason I was afraid to turn my back on the house.