Betrayal at Blackcrest

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  He ignored me for a moment as he jotted something down on a pad. I felt weak as I smelled the heavenly odors of coffee and toast. I hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours.

  “There,” he said, putting down the pad and looking at me. “How are you this morning, Miss Lane?”

  “Hungry,” I said, despite myself.

  “I’ll have cook bring in some breakfast. We’ve got quite a lot to talk about, haven’t we?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Derek Hawke pressed a bell. After a moment a fat, belligerent-looking woman came shuffling into the room. Her steel-gray hair was done up in curlers, and her angry brown eyes glared at me. She wore a light blue uniform and a pair of tennis shoes. She clutched a yellow tabloid in one hand, and the other one held a half-eaten sweet roll. She was clearly put out at being interrupted in her reading.

  “Another ax murder, Jessie?” Hawke inquired.

  “Found a severed head in a vacant lot. Police suspect a schoolmaster.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind waiting awhile to pore over the details, Miss Lane would like her breakfast now. I’ll have another cup of coffee to keep her company. Hurry it up, too, Jessie. Miss Lane is hungry.”

  Jessie shot me a venomous look and shuffled out of the room. I felt highly uncomfortable.

  “Will she put ground glass in my eggs?” I asked.

  “Jessie’s been with us for twenty years,” Derek Hawke explained in a smooth voice. “She’s a bit eccentric, a bit set in her ways, but we overlook that. No one can cook a roast or make a pudding to match hers. With help so hard to find nowadays, Jessie’s a treasure. She knows it, too, which complicates matters. I’m afraid she’s got us over a barrel.”

  “Frightening thought,” I remarked.

  He grinned. He seemed to be in a very agreeable mood this morning, gracious, expansive. I wondered what had caused the change.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  “Fairly. I thought I heard loud voices.”

  “You probably did. I had words with my aunt’s ward. The girl’s seventeen and thinks she can stay out at all hours without a fare-thee-well from anyone. I hope it didn’t disturb you too much?”

  “I was too exhausted to let it really bother me.”

  “You had quite a day yesterday, didn’t you?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “And quite a shock, as well. I’m sorry about that. Here’s Jessie. Put the tray down anywhere, Jessie. We’ll help ourselves.”

  Jessie slammed the tray down on the sideboard with an unnecessary clatter and shuffled heavily out of the room. The door banged behind her with an ear-splitting retort.

  “We generally eat at seven-thirty,” he said, not at all perturbed by the cook’s conduct. “Jessie reserves the time between eight and eleven for her tabloids and astrology charts. She doesn’t like her routine disturbed.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Help yourself, Miss Lane.”

  I heaped my plate high with fluffy yellow scrambled eggs and curls of crisp bacon. Derek Hawke poured coffee into thick blue cups and set a rack of fresh toast on the table. He watched with an amused expression as I devoured my food, going back for a second helping of bacon. When I had finished he lit one of his slender brown cigars and strolled over to the window, pushing the curtain aside. I poured another cup of coffee. I felt strong now, ready for battle.

  “It seems I owe you an apology,” he began.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m convinced you’re no blackmailer.”

  “How did you reach that cheerful conclusion, Mr. Hawke?”

  “I’ve been on the telephone all morning,” he said, “talking to some of my connections in London—a quite reliable firm, in fact.”

  “Indeed?”

  “They did some checking up and called me back. The phone bill is going to be enormous, but it’s been worth it. I’ve found out quite a lot about you, Miss Lane.”

  “Have you?”

  He nodded. “It’s amazing what you can learn if you put the right people on to it. I made my first call at seven, and within an hour and a half I learned all I needed to know about you.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “First of all, that you’re quite respectable and have no police record of any kind. Secondly, that you do indeed have a cousin named Delia Lane who left London a month ago with, supposedly, every intention of making a suitable marriage. It seems she didn’t give the man’s name to any of the people my man contacted, but they all agreed that she left to be married.”

  I waited, reserving any comment until he was finished.

  “She quit the show she was with—Mod Madness, some kind of musical revue—and drew eleven hundred pounds out of the bank. The producer was furious and had some very unpleasant things to say about people who quit without proper notice. Miss Lane left London on April 14 and hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “So?”

  “I’m not finished. Miss Lane was seen once or twice in the company of a tall, dark stranger—you’ll pardon the expression—who might possibly resemble me in essentials. She didn’t introduce this man to any of her friends. In fact, she went out of her way to keep his identity a secret. The choreographer of the revue met them in a pub and felt properly snubbed when she didn’t introduce her companion.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Not quite. It seems she told one of the chorus girls she was coming to Hawkestown and would live in a tremendous old house. That’s all my man could uncover in such a short time, although he did pick up a few savory items about Miss Lane’s romantic life.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s had no time to check any of this, mind you, but gossip has it that your cousin was hardly selective in her choice of male companions. She once dated a member of Parliament, married variety, but threw him over for a trombone player. Her name has been linked with a French film star, a bartender, a soccer player, and the proprietor of a left-wing bookstore in Chelsea. I’m sure there are others, but my man hasn’t had time to discover them yet. His assistants are working on it.”

  “I’ll just bet they are,” I said angrily.

  “Are the reports false?”

  “You know how theater people gossip and backbite.”

  “Still, where there’s smoke—”

  “Are you suggesting that my cousin is promiscuous?”

  “Not at all. I’m merely trying to corroborate my theory.”

  “And what would that be, Mr. Hawke?”

  “It’s quite simple. Your cousin met a man—married, no doubt—in London, probably a very rich and influential man, and decided to run off with him for a few weeks of holiday. It was important that no one knew his name, so she was extremely secretive about it. I’ve no doubt she’ll turn up in a week or two with a glorious tan, a new mink coat, and a fund of anecdotes about the south of France.”

  “That’s all very well,” I said hastily, “but you don’t know Delia. She’s gone out with dozens of men—she’s full of life and loves to play around—but she’s quite moral. She’s never accepted an expensive gift from any of her escorts, and she’d never run off with a married man. She hates the south of France. We both went there once for a week’s holiday and met the most incredible bores. I blistered and Delia got diarrhea. I’m afraid it wouldn’t hold water!”

  Derek Hawke grinned. I blushed at the unintentional pun.

  “Tour theory,” I snapped.

  “I gathered as much.”

  “She told me about you,” I said. “She described you and described Blackcrest. Explain that, and while you’re at it, explain the telegram I showed you last night.”

  He took a glossy magazine from the sideboard and laid it on the table in front of me. It was an expensive periodical devoted to old homes and antiques. He opened it to an article about Blackcrest, complete with picture of the house and one of himself standing with an old woman holding a frilly parasol that shadowed both their faces.
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  “My aunt permitted this article, against my protests. She even dug up those old photographs and gave them to the editor. Your cousin could be vague and mysterious with her friends and co-workers, but she had to have some credible story to present to you. I suggest she saw this article and fabricated the whole thing, using this as a basis for her story to you.”

  “Mr. Hawke, if you knew my cousin, you would know how incredible it would be for her to so much as glance at a magazine like this. Her taste in reading matter resembles that of your cook.”

  “Nevertheless, she could have seen it.”

  “What about the telegram?”

  “I’ve no doubt she sent it—perhaps even from Hawkestown—but the telegram was a decoy, sent to back up the story she’d handed you.”

  “I can’t believe that,” I replied.

  Derek Hawke folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, very much at ease. In the dull gold sweater he looked like a ski instructor. He watched me with his black-brown eyes, evidently waiting for further comment. I did not know what to say. I finished my coffee, setting the cup aside. I tried to formulate my thoughts.

  The breakfast room was bright and cheerful and not at all like the rest of the house I had seen. The walls were papered with an off-white. Brown and yellow rag rugs were scattered over the brown parquet floor. A heavy linen tablecloth of dark gold covered the table, a thick white bowl of brown and yellow chrysanthemums placed in the middle. It was not easy to think about a foul crime as I sat in this pleasant room, but that was exactly what I was doing. The tall, casual stranger leaning against the wall looked as though he could murder an infant without blinking a lash.

  “Your ‘connections’ in London seem to have found out quite a lot in a very short time,” I said. “I find that remarkable.”

  “My man has several assistants. I told him expediency was vital. He put all his men on it. They can do wonders under pressure.”

  “So it would seem,” I replied.

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “I think all this so-called information is, in fact, merely things you already knew, things Delia told you.”

  Derek Hawke frowned. He still leaned against the wall, but he was no longer casual and relaxed. He was tense, like an animal preparing to spring.

  “You still maintain that I brought her here?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “What if I did?” he said calmly. “Supposing I lured her here with a promise of wealth and marriage. Supposing I managed to smuggle her into the house without anyone seeing us, throttled her, and then buried the body in the cellars—there is a great catacomb of cellars under Blackcrest, even a secret passage that leads out into the woods, the perfect place for a crime. If I had done this, Miss Lane, believe me I would have taken every precaution. There would be no way to prove it without digging up the cellars and uncovering the body—”

  “That could be arranged,” I retorted, interrupting him.

  “Don’t be absurd. Can you think of one single motive I would have for committing such a crime?”

  “My cousin drew eleven hundred pounds out of the bank. That’s not a small sum of money.”

  “Murder has been committed for less,” he remarked. “Quite true. I can assure you I could put my hands on twice that sum merely by lifting this telephone. No, Miss Lane, the whole thing is absurd. I can sympathize with you in your concern, and I can understand your alarm. Your cousin has evidently lied to you and I’ve been the innocent tool of her lie. It’s unpleasant, but those are the facts.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I replied crisply.

  “You intend to go to the police with your accusations?”

  “I may.”

  “That would be foolish, Miss Lane,” Derek Hawke said quietly.

  He looked menacing. He moved away from the wall and came toward me with slow steps. He stopped a yard away from me and stood looking down at me. His eyes glowered. His wide lips were stretched tight. I felt a moment of sheer panic. This man was unscrupulous, and he was shrewd. He had worked everything out, down to the last little detail, and it would take superhuman control to fight him, to find out what he had done and then prove it.

  “The police won’t be able to help you,” he said. “They will think the same thing I do—that your cousin has run away with some man after taking considerable pains to cover her tracks. They won’t be able to prove a thing against me, and if you make your slanderous accusations against me, I’ll see that my lawyers bring charges against you.”

  He stared at me for a moment longer and then shrugged his shoulders and stepped over to the sideboard. He was grinning as he poured another cup of coffee for each of us. He had won. He knew it.

  “Try to see things clearly,” he said.

  “I believe I do.”

  “You think I’m a white-slaver, a murderer?”

  “The facts—”

  “The facts point to an irresponsible romantic escapade.”

  “Delia wouldn’t lie to me. Not to me.”

  “It’s absurd,” he said. “Fantastic. Last night I was ready to believe you were a blackmailer, come to carry out some devious scheme. I was wrong about you. I will admit that. I have already apologized for what I thought. Surely you’ll admit you were wrong about me.”

  I looked down at the tablecloth, thinking.

  I fully realized the position I was in. Derek Hawke had everything in his favor. Delia had played right into his hands, even back in London. He had probably handed her some story about the need of keeping the romance a secret for a while, and she had been vague and mysterious. She had even neglected to bring him to meet me, which should have aroused my suspicions at once. Now everything fit together perfectly to suit Derek Hawke’s theory, even the magazine article that Delia could have used to make up her story. Actresses were all supposedly irresponsible and immoral, and Delia had been slightly erratic in her love life. The police would believe what Hawke wanted them to believe. I was left with nothing but my own certainty that this man had done something dreadful.

  He was not going to get away with it.

  I could not go to the police yet, nor could I continue to make accusations against Derek Hawke if I intended to learn anything from him. I would have to take another approach. Perhaps all those expensive sessions at dramatic school would stand me in good stead now.

  “Perhaps I was wrong,” I said.

  I deliberately made my voice weak and doubtful. I looked up at him with helpless eyes, eyes that appealed to him. It worked. I could see him melting toward me. He smiled in a satisfied male way and passed me the cup of fresh coffee.

  “I just can’t believe Delia would do such a thing,” I said.

  “We are frequently mistaken about those we’re very close to,” Derek Hawke replied. “I’m sure your cousin meant no real harm.”

  “Delia and I were so close—”

  “It’s always hard to realize the truth,” he said.

  “I’m so … worried.”

  “I can understand that,” he said generously.

  “I don’t know what to do.” I hoped I wasn’t overplaying.

  “Your cousin will turn up.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course,” he said kindly.

  I thought he was going to pat my hand. I braced myself for the contact. I was mistaken. He swung a chair around to face the one I sat in and straddled it, his arms resting on the straight back. He smiled at me in the particular way men smile when they have bed in mind. Derek Hawke had an almost hypnotic magnetism, but I was on firm ground now. I could handle him, I thought. He was going to try to charm me out of my suspicions, charm me out of thinking all those ugly things about him. When he was done, I would be just another admiring female, ready to believe anything he wanted me to believe.

  It might have worked, had I not been playing the same game.

  6

  It was going to be a most dangerous game. Derek Hawke would no
t be taken in by mere feminine wiles and flattery to his ego. I would have to play it very, very cool, with just the right balance of promise and reserve. If I seemed to promise too much too soon, he would be suspicious, guess my motives. If I was too reserved, he would lose interest altogether. I once played Mata Hari in an ill-fated comedy that closed after opening night in London. The present performance was going to have to be much more convincing than that one had been.

  Derek Hawke shifted in his chair and looked at me with hooded lids. He seemed to be determining his chances. I fingered my coffee cup, my face full of worry and concern, attractively arranged. I raised my eyes to look at him. I tried to sound contrite.

  “I do owe you an apology. I don’t suppose it’s every day a strange woman comes barging into your house and accuses you of—of something so unpleasant.”

  “Not every day,” he admitted.

  “I suppose I should contact the Bureau of Missing Persons,” I said.

  “I told my man in London to stay on the case,” he said. “There are ways of checking such things—train tickets, hotel reservations, passport photographs, and so on. He’ll do the job far better than any government bureau, far faster. Why don’t we just let him handle it?”

  He didn’t want me to contact anyone about Delia. That was clear. He was afraid to have anyone investigate her disappearance, so he thought he would put me off with talk of this fictional “man” in London in hopes I would let things rest for a while.

  “But I couldn’t let you do that,” I demurred. “It’s not your concern. The expense—”

  “The expense is negligible,” he replied smoothly, “and I’m quite concerned. After all, it would seem I’m implicated in a dark crime. Let’s just say I want my name cleared. No, I’ll leave my man on the case. I have no doubt that before the week is out your cousin will be located in Majorca with a married millionaire.”