All things considered, it would be best to leave now while I was halfway sure I could find my way back to the stairs and the door. The kitten wouldn’t starve. I would tell Andrea immediately, and she would see to it that someone came down to rescue the animal. I didn’t want to lose my way in this labyrinth of rooms. The kitten would be all right, I reasoned, and then it cried again.
I gave up all thoughts of return. I couldn’t leave without the infuriating little creature. I went down the passage it had taken. It was very long, much wider than the others had been, and there were beams of strong black oak supporting the ceiling. This seemed to be some sort of main passageway. There were several cell-like rooms with stout wooden doors on either side of the passage. Some of the doors stood open, revealing drab interiors with stone walls, and floors littered with straw. I saw strands of rusty chain dangling from one wall.
The cellars were much older than Blackcrest itself. I had learned this from typing up the first chapter of Andrea’s memoirs. The cellars had been part of an old Elizabethan manor that had been destroyed, and Blackcrest had been built on its foundations. I wondered what horrors had taken place down here in centuries past, what poor souls had spent their last years chained up in those cells. There was an aura of evil here, something that had permeated the place and lingered over the centuries. It was as real as the gleaming walls, as strong as the smell of corrosion.
I was genuinely afraid for the first time. The atmosphere was oppressive, and I had an instinctive feeling that something was wrong. I could not identify the sensation, but it was there. It had nothing to do with the cells, nothing to do with the rotten straw and rusty chains. It had to do with something else, something that seemed to hang in the air like an invisible fog. The air seemed to be filled with whispers not quite audible—felt, not heard—warning me to go back.
The passage ended in an enormous cavelike room as large as a grand ballroom, the black walls carved out of solid rock and draped with cobwebs that swayed like live things in the air. It was filled with towering racks that reached almost to the top of the low ceiling, row upon row of racks with narrow aisles between them. Half of them held bottles covered with thick layers of dust, and the others were crusted with rust and hung with cobwebs. It was an eerie sight, something out of a nightmare. The flickering white beam from my flashlight swept over the scene hesitantly. The light was growing dimmer by the minute. Soon it would go out completely.
I called the kitten. I heard it scurrying down one of the narrow aisles between the rows of racks. I followed the sound. I turned a corner and went down another row. I caught a quick glimpse of the kitten as it scampered away. I hurried down the aisle, and then I hesitated. For some strange reason I did not want to go around the corner and turn into the next aisle. The silent whispers seemed to stir in the air. My flesh was cold, every fiber of my being alert and chilled. The kitten was making gentle purring noises on the other side of the rack.
For a moment I was completely captive to the strange sensations. I could not move. Terror swept over me in great waves. The hand holding the flashlight trembled, and the faint white beam danced up and down on the wall. The kitten continued to purr, a gentle sound that was far more terrifying than anything else could have been at that moment. I did not want to turn the corner. I did not want to find what I knew in my heart I would find on the other side of the rack.
I finally managed to take hold of myself. One simply didn’t stumble over dead bodies in cellars. Besides, I grimly reminded myself, there would be a smell.… I shook the morbid thought out of my head. I put on a resolute expression and forced myself to move.
I went around the corner and up the next aisle. The tops of bottles stuck out on either side, ancient corks wedged firmly in place. One of the bottles had fallen out of its wire compartment and lay on the floor. I almost stumbled over it. I pointed the diminishing beam of light directly ahead.
The kitten was near the end of the aisle, circling around a bright object on the floor. It did not run when it saw me approaching. It made a series of excited leaps toward me, then back to the object, as though to guide me toward the thing on the floor. My heart was pounding. My hand shook, and the light switched back and forth with a choppy motion, making the scene seem like something out of an old silent movie. The kitten grew still and looked up at me with enormous eyes. It purred softly at my feet.
I picked up the bright pink scarf. Tiny transparent sequins were scattered over the filmy silk. Delia had bought it at an exclusive shop in London. Redheads can’t usually wear pink, but in a curious way this particular scarf had not clashed with her curls. It had been her favorite. She had worn it over and over again. She had worn it the day she left London to come to Hawkestown. It still had a faint scent of the expensive perfume she always wore.
I wouldn’t let myself cry. The tears started to fill my eyes, but I forced them back. I couldn’t give way now. I would lose everything I had so far accomplished. Hysteria threatened to overcome me, and I almost gave way to it. I dropped the flashlight. It clattered noisily on the floor. The kitten screeched. The light flickered wildly for a moment and then held. I leaned against the rack, my eyes closed. My head swam with dark black waves that pressed on my brain, but I held on.
Several minutes passed. I was breathing heavily. I picked up the flashlight. I moved as one in a trance would move. I hid the scarf under my sweater and lifted the kitten up in my arms. It rested its head on my shoulder, purring contentedly. I moved out of the large room and went down the passage with the cell-like rooms. Somehow or other I found my way back to the stairs. The flashlight gave a final burst of light and then went out.
I climbed the dangerous steps in darkness. I felt along the wall. I found the bent nail where the flashlight had been hanging and hung it back up. The door creaked as I pushed it open and stepped into the hall. I closed it behind me and set the kitten down. It scampered away toward the tower. I leaned against the door, trying to overcome the dizziness that suddenly possessed me.
I mastered my emotions. I tried to be cool and logical, and after a while I succeeded. I went down the hall and back up to my room. The kitten followed me. It was barely seven-thirty. Hardly an hour had gone by since I first woke up. It seemed I had spent an eternity in the cellars. I was calm now.
I folded the scarf carefully and hid it in the wardrobe. It was tangible proof that Delia had been here, but it was not enough. Derek Hawke could say that I had planted the scarf in the cellars myself, and there would be no way to prove he was lying. I needed more evidence. I was determined to find it.
Betty came into the room, surprised to find that I was awake. She brought a tray with coffeepot and sweet roll. The aroma of the coffee was like ambrosia to me. Betty chatted merrily as she made the bed and straightened up the room. I found that I could speak in a level, normal voice. The coffee and conversation helped me to restore my equilibrium. Before Betty left, I had even laughed at one of her remarks.
At nine o’clock I joined Andrea Hawke in the study. She had brought up a stack of newspapers and a pair of scissors. She clipped various articles and pasted them in a scrapbook; then she proceeded to work all the crossword puzzles, occasionally asking me to help her with a particularly difficult word. I typed page after page of manuscript, and the work was exactly what I needed. It was soon twelve-thirty and time to go down for lunch.
I told Andrea I planned to go into town this afternoon and would have lunch there. We needed a new typewriter ribbon and some more carbon paper, but that was just the excuse I used to justify the trip. I had other things to do in Hawkestown. Andrea fondly handled the new pages of manuscript and said I had done enough work for the day, then asked me to pick up a new pot of glue. “And a few new thrillers from the rental library,” she said, hastily explaining that they were for Jessie. I knew she intended to read them herself. I smiled.
I went to my room to change. I was glad to have gotten out of joining the others for lunch. I didn’t think I could have faced Derek Hawke, know
ing what I knew now. The vagrant kitten was still in my room, fast asleep in the large chair. It seemed to have adopted me. I stroked the ginger fur for a moment, and the kitten purred in its sleep. I sat down on the edge of my bed, weary, yet eager to get on with my investigation. I had made quite a lot of progress. I knew now that Delia had come to Blackcrest with Derek Hawke. Now all I had to do was establish proof of it and force Hawke to reveal what he had done with my cousin.
11
I stepped out the back door and went down the short flight of steps. It was after one o’clock, and the sun was high. It poured dazzling light over the yard. The oak trees spread heavy purple shadows over the green grass. I walked beneath the groaning boughs and entered the tunnel of honeysuckle vines. Here it was cool, the leaves rustling. I could hear bees buzzing drowsily among the blossoms. My heels made a loud rapping noise on the flagstones.
I pushed open the rusty gate, passed through the small opening, and walked along the stone fence. I had taken a long shower and changed into a white linen dress with large green polka dots. I wore a thin white straw band in my hair, and my white straw purse had a green silk scarf dangling from its clasp. I felt fresh and revitalized, glad to be getting away from Blackcrest for the afternoon.
I turned a corner and walked along the bow of broken basement windows. Blackcrest did not seem formidable in the sunshine, only old and tottering. The huge gray stones were dusty. The vegetable gardens were shabby. I walked along the flagstone path, musing, and then I saw Derek Hawke and another man standing beside the stone toolshed. Hawke was talking angrily in a low voice, and although I could not distinguish the words, I could feel the vigorous rage behind them.
The other man had graying hair and a tanned, leathery face. A pair of faded gray overalls covered his short, muscular body, and his strong brown hand rested on the end of a garden hoe. His face was passive. He listened to Hawke without flinching, but his black eyes showed pain. I knew that he must be Neil’s father.
Hawke slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand and tossed his head. His voice rose. I caught the word “outrage” as I moved on down the path. I was thankful that the shrubs soon concealed me from the two men. I hurried on toward the garage, eager to be gone.
I had opened the garage door and was taking my keys out of my purse when I heard footsteps behind me. I tensed. I knew who it would be. I turned around, trying to remain cool and calm. Derek Hawke came toward me with long, leisurely strides. He was wearing brown boots, piped brown pants, and a dark green corduroy jacket with leather patches at the elbows. His white shirt was open at the throat, and the wind had blown his dark hair into a tangled mass over his forehead.
“Leaving us, Miss Lane?” he asked.
“Temporarily. I have errands.”
“I was sorry you couldn’t join us for lunch today. I half-expected you to come down to breakfast, too, though I suppose you working girls like to sleep as late as possible.”
“Betty brought coffee to my room,” I said.
“You’ve made quite a hit with her, it seems. Special service. You have a way with you that wins people over—first Andy, now Betty. It is a formidable gift. Be careful not to abuse it.”
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Hawke?”
“Just a word of advice,” he said.
He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a boyish smile. For a moment I thought he was very like his cousin Alex, and then I noticed that his dark eyes were not smiling at all. They were examining me closely, as though evaluating competition. I remained very calm, my chin tilted up and my eyes meeting his with cool disdain.
“Perhaps you’ll be able to join us for dinner tonight,” he said in a deep, husky voice. “Your presence would grace any table.” The stilted compliment sounded sincere. The smile that accompanied it was warm. He could be an accomplished actor, I thought.
“Perhaps I will,” I said.
“I’d like that.”
“Would you?”
“We decided to be friends,” he said. “Remember? We decided you were not a blackmailer and I was not a villain. I had rather hoped we’d get to know each other better.”
I made no reply. He jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. There was a potent, leathery smell about him that was very appealing. He was standing very close to me, and he had an undeniable attractiveness that made me nervous. I had to remind myself what this man was, what he had done.
“It seems my cousin Alex has gotten the jump on me,” he said. “Will you be seeing him this afternoon?”
“How—how did you know about that?”
“About your date with Alex last night?” He grinned. “Someone saw you together and told someone else who told someone else who told one of the maids who told Jessie who mentioned it to me this morning. Not much happens in Hawkestown, but then again, not much happens that isn’t known by everyone minutes after it’s happened. It’s that kind of town.”
“That’s encouraging,” I said.
He didn’t stop to ponder this reply. “Have you known Alex long?”
“We’re friends,” I replied tersely.
“Alex is a fascinating man, a successful author, young, carefree, charming. He has too much charm for his own good. I make it a strict rule never to trust a person with too much charm. It’s a rule you would be wise to adopt.”
“I’m a grown woman, Mr. Hawke. I think I can decide for myself the people I can trust, as well as the people I can’t.”
My voice was crisp. Derek Hawke stepped back, extending his palms in a gesture of mock concern, begging my forgiveness. The exaggerated gesture irritated me. He arched one dark brow, and an amused smile played at the corner of his mouth. He was silently laughing at me, and I felt a flush burning my cheeks. I gave him a sharp nod and went into the garage, thoroughly out of sorts. I got into the car and slammed the door with unnecessary violence.
He was still standing there when I backed out of the garage. It was necessary to turn the car around before I could drive around the house, and although there was plenty of space in front of the garage, I found it difficult to manipulate the car with someone watching me. I could see him through the windshield, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward, an amused expression on his face. It was a full five minutes before I had the car pointing in the right direction. By that time I was furious. I must have left several yards of rubber marks on the crushed-shell drive as I zoomed out of his sight.
I was still trembling with rage as I passed through the great stone portals and turned onto the main road. I was driving too fast, and the worn tires rumbled over the bumpy road. I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. It wouldn’t do to let myself vent my emotions in this childish way. Through his mockery Derek Hawke had scored a point and caused me to lose my composure. He had won an easy victory, and I was irritated with myself for giving way. I eased my foot on the gas pedal and slowed to a decent speed.
This was the first time I had driven this road in daylight, and the trees and shrubbery that had seemed so foreboding at night were now sun-spangled and lovely—tall pines, giant oaks, and maples with leaves of a dozen different shades of green, from darkest green to a pale, translucent jade almost yellow in the sunlight. I passed a field of waving brown grass, brown and golden sunflowers rising up on sticky stalks to meet the sun. Behind a low gray stone fence I saw a grassy slope scattered with rich blue wildflowers, a line of silver birch trees growing in the distance. Accustomed as I was to the congested pavements of London, this rugged, unkempt beauty had a soothing effect on me, and I soon banished my ill temper.
I passed the station with pale blue petrol pumps. Without the garish lighting, it looked sordid and dilapidated, plaster flaking off the walls, the parking area littered with candy wrappers and bottle tops. I wondered if Neil were already there. I hadn’t seen him in the gardens with his father. I drove through another wooded area and soon entered Hawkestown proper. It was calm and picturesque, the old houses standing serenely behind neat gardens,
the oak trees making patterns of shadow over the sun-speckled sidewalks, the river winding like a sparkling blue ribbon beneath the ancient stone bridges. I drove along the main street and found a parking place across from the square. Several old men were sitting on the benches beneath the tarnished bronze statue, and groups of pigeons waddled at their feet, looking for crumbs. I locked the car and walked along the row of shops.
I strolled casually, lingering to look in a window, enjoying the feeling of freedom. Several people were shopping or just walking beneath the oak boughs: a stout woman in tweeds with a pair of binoculars slung around her neck, an old man leading a Yorkshire terrier on a red leather leash, a girl with long, tangled blond hair who wore the briefest miniskirt. Everyone I passed studiously ignored me, and I had the strange sensation that I might be invisible. At the same time, I knew that every detail of my dress and manner was duly noted. I could almost hear myself being discussed later on by these people who didn’t appear to see me. Hawkestown was inbred, self-sustaining, and strangers were out of place. That was in my favor. Surely if Delia had been here there would be someone who remembered her.
The shops all had pink or gray brick fronts with large display windows. The brick was faded, and the windows were dusty. Several shops had ancient, handpainted wooden signs swinging over their doors; a few had tattered awnings. I had the feeling I was wandering across a stage set of an English village, the atmosphere mellow. After the crowded furor of London streets, this serene tranquillity didn’t seem quite real. I peered through the window of an antique shop. A marmalade cat slept peacefully on a Hepplewhite chair with tapestry-covered bottom, reflected in the dusty glass of a Venetian mirror. A set of gorgeous milk-glass dishes was piled carelessly beside one leg of the chair. Such treasures hadn’t yet been plundered by the commercial buyers of London, I thought. This in itself told me a great deal about Hawkestown’s isolation.
I went into the stationery shop to buy carbon paper and a new typewriter ribbon. The clerk had to hunt for both items, clearly not used to selling such unconventional wares. To soothe his distress I bought a box of heavy creamy writing paper and a pot of glue. While he wrapped them all up in a neat brown parcel, I examined the pens and cards and bottles of bright-colored ink. Not once during this transaction did the clerk look at me directly, although I felt I was under serious scrutiny from the moment I entered the shop.
Betrayal at Blackcrest Page 11