Betrayal at Blackcrest

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  “It’s dangerous, Deborah. Far too dangerous.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “You should be.”

  “Perhaps I should be. Right now I can’t think of anything but finding my cousin—or finding what happened to her.”

  Alex came over to the sofa and looked down at me. The grim lines of his face relaxed a little, and his dark brown eyes were warm. He shook his head again and rested his hand on my shoulder. His wide mouth spread into a smile, faintly mocking.

  “You’re a strange creature, Deborah,” he said quietly. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you. You’re stubborn and obstinate and unyielding and full of fight. I admire that. It seems you’ve won. There’s no way I can keep you away from Blackcrest, short of tying you up, gagging you, and stuffing you in a closet. I’ll not resort to that—yet.”

  “I’m glad you see things my way.”

  “I don’t. I’ll indulge you for a little while—with reservations. You wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He left the room. I was mystified, wondering what he was going to do. I stepped over to the open French windows and stared out at the shabby little garden with its untidy flowerbeds and ragged grass. Maple trees grew all around it, and above them the sky was lightening, taking on that misty quality of twilight. As the sun slipped from view, banners of apricot light spread on the horizon, soaking into the blue and staining it. A gentle breeze rustled through the dark green leaves of the maples, making a soothing sound, and I could smell all the pungent odors of the garden.

  I knew that Alex was genuinely concerned with my safety, and it was pleasant to know. His concern was flattering. I wished that I were able to respond in the typically feminine fashion to his concern, become soft and yielding and leave everything to him. But he had said I was stubborn and unyielding, and it was true. This was something I had to do myself, and I had a hard, cold determination to see it through, a determination that would allow no softness, no fear. There might be danger, but I was prepared to face it.

  I was lost in thought and did not hear Alex return. When I turned around, he was standing in the doorway, watching me with intense brown eyes. He came toward me, and I was so caught up by the look in those eyes that I did not notice the gun until he held it toward me.

  “Since you’re determined to act like one of my heroines,” he said, “you may as well have the proper equipment. Take this. Keep it with you at all times.”

  “Is that—a gun,” I said foolishly.

  “The genuine article,” he replied grimly.

  “But—”

  “Take it,” he said.

  I looked down at the gun with startled eyes. It was an ugly thing, short, black, and deadly. He thrust it into my hands, and I felt a chill as the cold metal touched my flesh. It was surprisingly heavy. I held it awkwardly, as though it might explode at any moment.

  “Do you know how to use it?” he asked.

  “I … I suppose so.”

  “Ever used one before?”

  “Not a real one. I once did The Letter by Somerset Maugham in repertory. In the opening scene I shot my lover. I just held the thing up and fired away, over and over again. Blanks. It made quite a noise. I kept my eyes closed—not a very convincing murderess.”

  “This works exactly like your stage gun, but it fires real bullets. This is the safety catch. It’s locked. You just snap it back and pull the trigger, just like in the movies.”

  “Do you really think this is necessary?” I asked, rather nervous to be holding the vile thing.

  “If you’d listen to reason, it wouldn’t be.”

  I stepped over to the sofa, opened my purse, and dropped the gun into it. It made a plopping noise as it fell among the various feminine articles. I snapped the purse shut and wiped my hands. There was something flippant and incongruous about the gesture that made Alex grin. I stared at him with defiant eyes.

  “That’s that,” I said.

  “Be careful you don’t blow your own head off with that thing.”

  “I think I can handle it,” I replied crisply, my moment of nervous apprehension gone. “After all, I did shoot my lover night after night, for seven weeks running.”

  “With your eyes closed,” he retorted pleasantly.

  “They’ll be wide open from now on,” I promised.

  “I certainly hope so. I mean that seriously, Deborah. Watch out. Promise me that you’ll be careful and not do anything foolish. This is not a game, not a role you’re playing.”

  “I know that, Alex. I … I promise to be careful. I’d better leave now. It’s getting late.”

  “Martin is due in Hawkestown tomorrow. I’ll get in touch with you. I’ll call or come to Blackcrest. If you don’t hear from me, don’t worry about it. Martin may want to work on his own before he talks to you.”

  “Very well. I’ll expect to hear from you tomorrow or the day after that.”

  “In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime I’ll be very, very good,” I said.

  He led me to the front door and out to where the car was parked. I put the now heavy purse onto the seat and got behind the steering wheel. Alex leaned against the side of the car, his arms resting on the window frame, his eyes examining my face.

  “I wish I could know for sure everything will be all right,” he remarked. “I wish I could know you wouldn’t do anything headstrong.”

  “I gave you my promise,” I said, taking out my keys.

  “I know.” He sighed heavily. “I’ll be glad when this is all cleared up,” he continued. “I’ll be glad when we can meet as you and I and not as fellow detectives. Then we could talk about you and me and the moon and never mention Blackcrest. I look forward to that time.”

  “And in the meantime, there’s Tottie,” I replied, rather wickedly.

  Alex grinned, not at all affronted. “She’s a good kid,” he said, “but not exactly what I had in mind for a rainy day.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “We’ll discuss that later.”

  He stepped away from the car and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He stood there with his head tilted to one side, the breeze fluttering the locks of dark hair and whipping his red tie up over his shoulder. I put the car in gear and backed out of the driveway. Alex lifted his hand in salute as I turned onto the main road.

  It was later than I had thought. The apricot stains on the horizon had turned to dark gold, and already the air was thickening. Soon darkness would fall. I intended to have dinner with the family tonight, and I did not want to be late. I drove fast, punishing the car as I sailed over the bumpy back roads toward Black-crest, heedless of worn tires and dubious springs. The last golden stains were fading as I turned through the large stone portals and headed down the private road that would lead me to the house. I slowed down, knowing that I had plenty of time now. Although evening shadows were fast falling, I had not turned on my headlights. Neither had the other car. I gave a violent blast on the horn as I saw it almost upon me.

  Neither of us was going fast, but neither of us had seen the other. I jerked the wheel and shot the car off the road, slamming on my brakes in time to avoid crashing into a tree. The other car went on, oblivious of the near accident. I caught a quick glimpse of an aged, weathered face behind the windshield, and I knew at once that it was Neil’s father. The car was piled high with luggage and boxes, and as I turned to watch it disappear down the road, I saw a gleaming black motorcycle strapped onto the back.

  I pulled back onto the road, more shaken than I cared to admit. My hands were trembling as I jerked on the headlights. I drove the rest of the way to Blackcrest at a snail’s pace, wondering what had happened to cause this sudden departure of the gardener with all his luggage and his son’s motorcycle.

  15

  The house seemed to be brooding. I had noticed it when I first came in, and now as I dressed to go down to dinner I could not shake the curious sensation that something unpleasant had
happened, that the very walls of the house had absorbed the ugliness and held it. There was a silence, a grim, hushed silence like that which follows a storm or some disaster. I had the feeling of suspended motion, of loud voices just hushed, of violent emotions banked down and smoldering.

  I thought at first that my imagination was playing tricks on me. I had had a trying day. My nerves had been frayed and my emotions had run the gamut, but I was cool and calm now. No, this sensation did not come from within. It hung over Blackcrest like a pall. Something unpleasant had happened, and the atmosphere was permeated with its aftereffects. I dressed slowly, frowning a little, wondering what I would find when I went down to join the others.

  During my absence, Betty had pressed the dress I intended to wear. It hung in front of the wardrobe now, a sober black with a high neck, a tight-fitting waist, and a short, flared skirt. The material was somewhat shiny with age, but the expensive simplicity of the garment still had an enduring chic. I slipped into it, smoothing it down about my waist and tugging at the freshly pressed folds of the skirt. I fastened on a wide leopard-skin belt, then emptied the contents of my purse into the small leopard-skin bag that matched the belt. The gun made a slight bulge, but I didn’t want to leave it lying around the room for one of the servants to discover.

  It was almost eight o’clock when I left the room. I walked slowly around the maze of hallways that would eventually bring me to the staircase that led down to the main hallway. Only a few lamps were burning, giving the barest minimum of light, leaving the rest of the area shrouded in shadows. The curious silence still prevailed. It was almost as though Black-crest were holding its breath, waiting for another eruption of violent emotion.

  When I reached the head of the staircase, I paused for a moment to stand among the dusty green leaves of the potted plants. I could hear voices now, coming from the small drawing room beside the dining room. Although I could not distinguish individual words, there was no mistaking that harsh, guttural voice that soared up so forcefully. Derek Hawke was angry again. I wondered who the victim of his wrath was this time.

  I hesitated, not wanting to go down, yet knowing that I must. I had already lost some of my confidence at the very sound of that voice. Despite my determination, I did not know if I could face Derek Hawke and keep control of my emotions. I was afraid I would fly at his face with claws unsheathed, or worse, dissolve into tears of hysteria and demand immediate answers to the questions that plagued me. It would take all my training as an actress to go through with this with the poise I knew I must maintain.

  I took several deep breaths and started down the stairs. I was halfway down when Derek Hawke stepped into the hall. He stood at the foot of the stairs, watching me. He was glowering, his mouth surly, one brow arched arrogantly. I managed to keep complete command of myself. I gave him a cool glance and continued on down the stairs.

  He stood with his hand resting on the banister. He was wearing a pair of black slacks, cut close to the leg, and a rather flamboyant jacket of maroon broadcloth embroidered with black silk floral designs. The jacket would have been effeminate on many men, but on Derek Hawke it only served to offset his rugged masculinity. There was a row of tiny ruffles on his gleaming white shirt front, and the maroon silk bow tie was knotted carelessly. He looked like a pirate dressed by a mod tailor, and the effect was one most men would have paid dearly to achieve. He wore the clothes as nonchalantly as he would have worn a bathrobe.

  “I see you’ve managed to join us, Miss Lane,” he said in a mocking voice. “All dressed for the occasion, too, I see. We’re not at our best this evening, but perhaps you can bring a bit of levity.”

  “I’ll try to,” I said, and I was surprised at how calm and normal my voice sounded.

  “Did you have a nice afternoon?” he asked.

  “It was quite profitable.”

  “I’m pleased. You missed quite a lot of excitement here. I seem to be a dastardly villain. Not only do I thwart true love, but I overstep my authority and undermine my aunt’s position.”

  “How perfectly dreadful of you,” I remarked.

  “I’m catching it from all sides tonight. Perhaps you will be kind. Perhaps you’ll be on my side—though I doubt it. You’re a woman. Women are incurably romantic. You’ll undoubtedly think me vile, too.”

  “Perhaps I shall. Would you really care what I thought?”

  He looked up at me with his dark eyes. For a moment it was almost as though he genuinely wanted my sympathy, my understanding, and then his wide mouth tightened into a frown, and that moment was lost.

  “Frankly, not a bit,” he replied.

  He took my hand to help me down the last two steps. There was something arrogant and mocking in the gesture. He released my hand and stood back to examine me again. I was as cool and poised as a mannequin as his eyes swept over me, but I could feel that poise slipping.

  “Do I meet with your approval?” I asked icily.

  “Very much so.”

  “Are you always so rude?”

  “You dislike being admired?”

  “I dislike being stared at, Mr. Hawke.”

  He grinned wickedly, pleased that he had irritated me. “It seems I am a monster,” he said. “Rudeness is the least of my crimes. You must bear with me. Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he added in a grim voice.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “These formal dinners of Andy’s are always a pain. She was brought up in that era when one always dressed for dinner, and I endure them to please her. As I mentioned, we’re not at our best tonight. There’s been a family crisis—they’re becoming all too frequent—and I don’t think it will be especially pleasant for you to sit through. I can have Jessie prepare a tray for you.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” I said.

  He seemed about to say something more but restrained himself with a visible effort. He turned his back on me and walked back into the drawing room, moving in quick, angry strides. I followed him, feeling not the least bit of trepidation.

  Andrea Hawke stood in front of the pearl-gray draperies. She gave me a preoccupied nod and then glanced at her nephew with a perplexed expression. She wore a floor-length gown of royal purple velvet with long, elegant sleeves. Although the gown was old, the nap shiny, it was still a regal garment, and Andrea wore it with all the flair and confidence of a true grande dame. She toyed with a long black fan, and I could sense her tension. The air was electric with it.

  “She still hasn’t come down yet?” Derek Hawke snapped.

  “Not yet, dear.”

  “I’ll give her five more minutes!”

  “Derek—”

  He glared at her, and Andrea bit back whatever she had been about to say. The tension seemed to crackle. Derek Hawke stalked about the room, one hand jammed in his jacket pocket, the other tugging at the maroon tie. He was like a panther, the anger and energy charging through him and making it impossible for him to stand still.

  “I so wanted everything to be nice for Miss Lane—” Andrea began.

  “I told her there’d been a family crisis. She didn’t have to join us. Since she has, she may as well see us as we really are. I’ll put on these damn clothes once a week and eat from the best china and crystal, but I’ll be damned if I’ll stand around and make polite chitchat when I feel like cracking someone’s skull!”

  I gave him a caustic glance. Andrea Hawke drew herself up.

  “You seem to forget you’re in my house,” she said.

  “Oh, to hell with your house,” he barked. “I indulge your whims, and I overlook your maddening conduct, but I have no intentions of letting this place become a brothel.”

  “Really, dear—”

  “I warned her I wouldn’t put up with it, but she kept right on seeing him, sneaking around at all hours of the night like a promiscuous little slut. I told Jake what was going on, and I told him to keep his son away from her, but he didn’t seem to be able to. He knew what a good t
hing it would have been if that boy could have trapped her. He’ll have second thoughts now.”

  “Jake has been with this family for over twenty years. What will he do now?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea, and I couldn’t care less.”

  “You could have at least let me speak to him, Derek.”

  “It’s over and done with, Andy! Now maybe that girl will listen to reason. Five minutes are up!”

  He marched over to the wall and pulled a cord, jerking it savagely. In a moment Morris stepped into the room. His uniform was spotless, his silver hair brushed sleekly, but his withered old face looked as though it might crumple at any moment. The servants must have been discussing the affair all day belowstairs, and I wagered there wasn’t a one of them who wasn’t on Honora’s side.

  “Go fetch Miss Honora,” Derek Hawke commanded. “Tell her she is to be down here in ten minutes or I’ll be up after her myself.”

  “Leave the girl alone,” Andrea protested.

  “Hurry up, Morris!” he said sharply.

  The butler left the room, and Andrea Hawke frowned, her eyes growing cloudy. She toyed with her black fan, slapping it against the palm of her hand. “I just can’t believe it,” she mumbled. “I just can’t believe it’s happening.” She shook her head and seemed to drift off into her own private fog, her blue eyes distressed. “My own nephew …” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry, Andy,” Derek Hawke said impatiently. “I haven’t meant to hurt you.”

  “I can take it,” she said. “I’m old, and I don’t matter. It’s the girl—”

  “I’ve only done what’s best for her.”

  “She said she loved him.”

  “She’s a child. She’s not capable of seeing him for what he is. He would ruin her.”

  “Even so, you don’t have to torment her now. Why can’t you let her be? Do you have to force her to come down here?”

  “I won’t let her sulk and brood. She’s got to face things. She has to accept reality. She thinks I’m a monster now, but the day will come when she’ll thank me.”