Betrayal at Blackcrest

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  “Are you sure you ought to be drivin’?” she asked. “You’re still in a state, an’ that drug the doctor gave you—”

  “I’m perfectly all right, Betty. Don’t … don’t tell anyone where I have gone. Will you promise not to?”

  “Of course, Miss Deborah, but—”

  “If anyone asks, just say you don’t know. I must hurry.…”

  I seemed to be in a trance. I drove mechanically, automatically doing all the things required of me but conscious of none of them. I saw none of the scenery, and the road was merely a gray-brown ribbon unfolding beneath the wheels. My mind was occupied with other things, and the driving might have been done by another Deborah Lane who was miraculously able to avoid an accident while I was thinking about Neil.

  He would help me. I knew he would. After what Derek Hawke had done, he would be ready to stand up to him and see that justice was done. Betty had told me that Neil had warned Honora to “forget about it and not stir up trouble.” He knew. Honora must have told him. She had been in the cellars, waiting to meet Neil, and she had seen something. It was only natural that she tell Neil. He would help me now. He must. If only I could gain his confidence. If only he weren’t so grief-stricken that he wouldn’t be able to realize the importance of it all.

  I dreaded going to him. I dreaded seeing his grief. For all his surly mannerisms and his rebellious facade, I knew that there was a deep sensitivity in his makeup. Otherwise Honora would not have loved him. He was very young, and the very young feel things so strongly. He would be bereft, and I would have to bring up painful things that wouldn’t make his loss any easier to bear. It was not going to be pleasant.

  I arrived at the edge of Hawkestown with a sense of shock. I hadn’t paid the least attention to the road, and here I was already. I looked for the turnoff Betty had mentioned and drove a short way down a street lined with old frame houses with peeling paint and sagging roofs. The place I was looking for was at the end of the block, a three-story brown frame house with gables and an overabundance of gingerbread trim around the wooden veranda. I saw the motorcycle parked at one side of the house under a decrepit oak tree. Three dirty children in tattered clothes were examining the machine with wondrous eyes.

  The woman who answered my knock had a face that looked as though it had long since lost the ability to express emotion of any kind. Her hennaed hair was wet and in steel curlers, and a shabby red chenille robe covered her plump middle-aged body. A cigarette dangled from her lips. She did not remove it when she spoke. I asked for Neil. She jerked her head toward the stairs and said he was in the second room on the left. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching me as I started up. Her black eyes were as void of life as a zombie’s. The stairs were dark and creaked alarmingly as I went up them. The whole house reeked with the odor of recently cooked cabbage.

  I heard the music as soon as I reached the second floor. It was one of the earliest Beatles records, and it blared brazenly. I wondered if whoever was playing it knew of the grief in the house. I stepped to the door of the room the woman had indicated, and I was rather perturbed to find that the music was coming from that room. I knocked loudly, hoping Neil could hear the knock over that blaring music. Music soothes, but I doubted if that particular kind of music could be said to qualify under these circumstances. There was a screeching whir as the needle was raked across the surface of the record, then blessed silence. I could hear his footsteps as he walked toward the door.

  “What do you want?” he said sullenly, staring at me with dark eyes that didn’t try to hide their dislike.

  “I’ve come about Honora,” I told him.

  “I’ve already heard about it. The maid told me this morning.”

  “I … I would like to talk to you,” I said gently.

  He hesitated for just a moment. Then he held the door open. “Be my guest,” he said in that same sullen voice.

  I stepped into the room. It was dirty and disorderly. Pop posters were tacked all over one wall, and a pile of records leaned against the cheap portable phonograph that sat on the floor beside the unmade bed. I could smell sweat and grease and the odor of soiled clothing. Neil stood just inside the room, a defiant grin on his lips as he watched my reactions to the mess.

  “I wasn’t expecting company,” he said.

  “That’s quite apparent,” I replied coldly.

  “Place belongs to a friend of mine. He’s a slob.”

  I must be fair to him, I told myself. It was only natural that he be rude and sullen. I came from Blackcrest, and Blackcrest was enemy territory. He might even think that Derek Hawke had sent me to deliver some message or make some threat. Naturally he would be uneasy and on guard. Nevertheless, I could feel his animosity, and I didn’t like the way his dark eyes leered at me. Be fair, I warned myself as my defenses rose, be fair.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said. “I’m busy.”

  He stepped over to a chipped dresser and began to take clothes out of the top drawer. He chose to ignore me while he did this. I wondered how I was going to overcome his animosity. I wondered how I was going to penetrate that barrier. He wore black boots, skintight gray pants, and a silky gray shirt with enormous blue and purple flowers. The shirt hung loose over the pants, and the sleeves were full-gathered at the wrists. With his shaggy blond hair and full sneering lips, he looked like a virile young animal, uncouth and dangerous. I told myself that this was the boy Honora loved, a boy who was too proud to show his grief to a stranger.

  “I … I know how you must feel,” I said. “I wish there were something I could say—”

  “Spare me,” he snarled.

  “Neil—I’m on your side.”

  “Really?” He stopped what he was doing and looked at me, one brow arched arrogantly.

  “I understand. Honora … spoke of you. She told me how she felt. I thought she was very lucky to be so young and … so in love.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” I said calmly. “She told me about the … opposition. I know how hard it must have been.”

  “It’s over now,” he said bluntly. “Water under the dam.”

  “You don’t know what Derek Hawke has done,” I protested.

  “I don’t particularly care.”

  “If you knew—”

  “Baby,” he said, “I’m busy. Get to the point.”

  I cringed at the “baby.” I stared at him with frosty eyes.

  “Very well. Honora told me she saw something down in the cellars, about six weeks ago. She was about to tell me about it, but we were interrupted. I … I need to know what she saw. It’s imperative that I know. She said she was waiting for you at the time. She must have told you about it.”

  “That?” he said, scowling. “She babbled about it for weeks. She was always seeing things, imagining things. She was nervous, jumpy. She said she saw Hawke going down in the cellars with a woman. She was hiding behind one of the wine racks. She said they were laughing and carrying on as they disappeared into one of the rooms. She heard a scream. When Hawke came out, the woman wasn’t with him.”

  So I knew now. It was a fact. There could be no more hope. I took it with amazing calm. The boy stood with his hands on his thighs, looking at me with a sarcastic smile.

  “She was lying,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s cool,” Neil said, “real cool. He might commit murder, but he wouldn’t be careless enough to do it in his own cellars.”

  “Then why did Honora tell you that?”

  He frowned, his lips curling in disgust. “She wanted attention. I didn’t show that night. There was a poker game afterward when we closed up the joint. She was waiting for me, and I didn’t show. She was still waiting when I came in—all hysterical. I told her to cool it. She was like that, always playing for attention, always wanting to know everything I did. It chapped.”

  “Honora was telling the truth,” I said flatly.

  He paused. He shook his head slowly. �
��Wow,” he said, stretching the word out.

  “It’s true. The … the woman was my cousin. Hawke murdered her. I found her scarf in the cellars. I … I’ve gathered evidence against him. A detective is working on the case.”

  “No kiddin’,” he said.

  “Will you help me?” I asked. “Will you repeat what you’ve just told me to the detective? Will you sign a statement?”

  He grunted. “Un-unh. Not this baby.”

  “Of course you will,” I said.

  “Look—I’m not getting involved,” he said slowly. “No cops, no statements. No commitments. Not this baby. Not me.”

  “You can’t mean that,” I said, stunned.

  “I mean every word of it, baby. I’m leaving for London tonight. I don’t intend to get messed up with this. You play girl detective all you want, but leave me out of it.”

  “Neil! Derek Hawke committed murder! He … he may have murdered Honora—”

  “Tough,” he said. His voice was flat, unmoved.

  I stood there, unable to comprehend it. Neil took out a suitcase and began to toss clothes into it. He was calm, completely unperturbed by what I had just told him. The hideous silk shirt swung to and fro as he moved. The boots scraped on the bare wooden floor. He wiped a strand of hair away from his temple and continued to pack. I couldn’t believe it. For a moment I simply couldn’t believe it.

  “But—you loved her—” I protested.

  “Come off it,” he snapped. “Sure, I played around. For a while I thought there might be something in it. She wanted to elope. I knew he would have my hide—there was some trouble earlier with the cops, and he would bring that up. Why not? I thought. She was eager. I figured I had a good thing going. If I could hold her off till she was eighteen, I stood to make quite a haul. Wishful thinking. Hawke wasn’t about to let anything like that happen. Shame,” he said, shaking his head, “but I’ll latch onto something good in London. There’s lots of lonely birds there with lots of money.”

  “He was right,” I whispered. “Derek Hawke was right about you.”

  “You thought it was the big romance?”

  “I suppose I did,” I replied, my voice like ice.

  He chuckled. “So did she. Women are fools.”

  “Yes,” I said, “we are.”

  “I played the big scene yesterday after he canned the old man. Didn’t have nothing to lose, thought he might even give me some money if I said I’d keep away from her. No dice, and I mean but no dice. He threw me out.”

  “And you still let her think you were going to elope with her,” I said.

  “Sure, Honora ran after me. I knew it was a losing proposition. I let her babble on. I listened to her silly plans. I was planning to move out, and I didn’t want no hysterical farewell scene. So I let her talk. I played the game.”

  “And Honora lost.”

  “Looks that way, baby.”

  “No,” I said quietly. “No one can be that cold, that callous. She is dead, dead! You must have some feeling.”

  “It don’t pay, baby. This is the twentieth century. Romeo and Juliet are way, way out of style.”

  I slapped him then. I drew back my palm and smashed it against his face. It landed with a sharp impact. He cried out in shock. He stared at me with a stunned expression, and for a moment I thought he was going to seize me. I stood my ground, glaring at him with a hard, cold anger that blazed through my body. With my eyes I dared him to say or do anything. He rubbed his cheek. He nodded at me as though we were playing a game and I had scored that round. I turned and left the room, trembling with rage. I was still trembling when I got in the car.

  I drove around for a long time, the anger possessing me with hard, merciless force. Thirty minutes passed, and I found myself by the edge of the river, staring at the water and the drooping willow trees. That first fury was dissipated now. It left by degrees, and I found my mind working with cold, mechanical precision. I knew what I was going to do. I couldn’t wait for Alex. I couldn’t wait for Martin Craig. I drove to a drugstore and purchased a flashlight. I stepped into the phone booth and dialed Alex’s number. The phone rang several times. I tapped my fingernails impatiently on the instrument panel.

  A woman answered. For a moment I didn’t recognize her voice.

  “Mr. Tanner,” I said.

  “He’s out. This is … his secretary.”

  “Deborah Lane speaking,” I replied crisply. “This is very important. Tell him I know for sure. He’ll understand. Tell him I’ve gone down to the cellars to find the … the place.”

  “But, duckie—”

  “Tell him to hurry,” I said.

  I hung up the phone. I got into the car and drove back to Blackcrest. The gun was in the purse at my side. The flashlight was strong, its battery new. I had had enough evasion, enough of piecing together a horrible jigsaw puzzle. Now I intended to act.

  18

  I closed the cellar door behind me. It was not likely that anyone would come down and see it open, but I wouldn’t take that chance. I shut it firmly and switched on the flashlight. The strong light swept over the area like a silver-white blade, pointing out the damp, dangerous steps and the rough brown wall with its festoons of wet green fungus. I went down the steps cautiously. I was incredibly calm, incredibly firm of purpose. Now that I knew, nothing remained but to locate the final, irrefutable evidence and be done with it. I suppose I was in shock. Grief and horror would come later, but now I moved as though in a trance.

  I had the gun with me. I held it at my side, my fingers curled around the cold black metal. It was a heavy, awkward thing, and I was tempted to hide it at the foot of the steps. I did not know if I could pull the trigger if the need arose. I doubted it. For a moment I hesitated, thinking I would slip it behind the bottom step. Then I decided against it. The gun seemed unnecessarily dramatic, but there was a certain security in having it with me. I kept it in my hand.

  I moved past the wine racks. I passed through the first room, trying to remember the way I had gone yesterday morning when I was pursuing the kitten. I turned down a narrow passage that brought me into a small room with rusty tools leaning against the walls. There was a shovel and a pick. The shovel had dried mud caked on it. The room was a dead end. I retraced my way and went down a second passage. It took me into the room with the kegs.

  The silence of the place was unnerving. It was broken only by the faint drip of water that seeped down a wall from some invisible source. Motes of dust danced in the beam of my flashlight, and a broken cobweb swayed from the ceiling in a rhythmic motion, to and fro in the gentle current of air caused by my movement. I saw the table where the kitten had perched in such terror. I moved toward the passage I had followed yesterday.

  I stumbled on a piece of wood. It clattered under my foot, and the echoes of the noise shattered the silence. The noise reverberated in the air for a moment and then died down. The silence that followed was even more intense by contrast. It seemed to be laden with inaudible noises, those same silent whispers I had sensed yesterday morning. The fumes of alcohol were overwhelming. There was, too, a sour odor, sharp and unpleasant. I switched the blade of light around the room. It glided over huge wooden kegs, washed the dank walls.

  I started down the passage. I might have been in the bowels of the earth. The great weight of Blackcrest was above me, and the celing of the passage seemed to sag down, inch by inch. I could visualize a complete collapse of the foundations. I could see tons of earth and rubble falling with one sudden thud, crushing me, or worse, leaving me trapped here, buried alive. The thought was horrible. Threats of claustrophobia swept over me, and my body tightened. I gnawed my lower lip, standing still for a moment, banishing the morbid fear.

  I moved on, trying not to think. This was no time for thinking. I couldn’t allow my mind to swerve from its grim purpose. If I did, if I loosened one bit, lost one fraction of control, I knew I would crumble into a hysterical mass, capable of nothing but piercing screams. In a short whi
le it would all be over. I would find what I was looking for. Alex would come. Derek Hawke would be unmasked. I would go away for a while. I would be completely alone. I would grieve, and I would come to grips with the horror of it all. Now I must not waver.

  The passage made a sloping turn, widened. I was in the main passage now. The beam of my light picked out the ancient wooden doors ahead. I remembered the rusty chains I had seen on the wall of one of those cells and shuddered at the thought of them. The heels of my shoes scraped the earthen floor. The sound was magnified in the stillness. This part of the cellars was icy cold. Zephyrs of clammy air stroked my cheeks. I wondered where the air could possibly be coming from.

  I was almost in that great cavern of a room at the end of the passage, the place where I had found the scarf. I passed by the doors of the cells. I stopped. I stood dead still for a moment. My heart seemed to leap in my breast; then it pattered rapidly. Every fiber of my body was taut, concentrating. I heard a noise, far behind me, coming from that section of the cellars I had already passed through. Footsteps? I could not be sure.

  The noise had been there for some time, but I had been so engrossed in thought that it had not fully registered. Now it had brought me up sharp, banishing everything else. Footsteps? Had I heard footsteps? I hardly dared breathe. I stood rigid, my eyes closed.

  I listened. There were no footsteps. I was nervous and on edge. I had imagined them. There was another sound. It was almost like heavy breathing, as though someone else, behind me, had paused to listen. I trembled. The cold air stroked my face and arms. How foolish. I heaved a sigh of relief. The acoustics of the place magnified each tiny noise; the echoes repeated it over and over. The air swirled around the walls, and it sounded like breathing. I gripped the flashlight and started to move on.

  The sudden clatter exploded in the silence. Someone had stumbled on a piece of wood, possibly the same one I had stumbled on. It was not my overactive imagination this time. The noise was real, the echoes still ricocheting it from wall to wall. The door of the last cell was open. I darted into the cell. The beam of my light flashed on the wall, showing me the chains that hung there. I switched the light off.