The Stone Bull

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “Let no guilty man escape, if it can be avoided.”

  U. S. Grant had said that when endorsing a letter that had to do with the Whiskey Ring—whatever that was. Hardly a quotation that spoke volumes to either Brendon or me. Yet the mere extracted words had in themselves been made to sound appropriate. I had reacted to them, and so had Brendon. Someone who had easy access to this volume had typed those words, knowing that it wouldn’t matter what they were taken from.

  Another quotation came unbidden to my mind. “The guilty flee where no man pursueth.” Except that the note thrust beneath our door meant that someone was pursuing. Not me, but Brendon.

  I know now who pursues. I know now what the words meant and for whom they were intended, but I can find no reassurance in this knowledge. I have left the dark shelter of the summerhouse across the lake and come upstairs, to sit here in our rooms, with all the lights burning again, while I wait once more for Brendon. He went down to Kings Landing this afternoon on some errand, and I am frantic with waiting, yet afraid to have him come. It is Brendon I need to confront. He must tell me the truth now. And I am afraid.

  I had found Brendon at the hotel earlier this morning, but I’d hesitated to tell him about seeing the stone bull. Before he left on his errand he took me out to the place on the edge of the lake, not far from the hotel, where he kept his own boat. He couldn’t come with me, but when I’d climbed in and set the oars in place, he pushed it off the bank and stood watching for a few moments while I got used to the rather heavy wooden boat. The hotel boats were made of a fiberglass combination and were lighter, but I wanted to be trusted with Brendon’s dinghy.

  “Of course you can swim?” he called to me.

  I nodded and smiled, and he went off toward the hotel. I wasn’t going to tell him that I couldn’t swim very well and have this pleasure denied me. I didn’t expect to do anything reckless that would tumble me into the water.

  I found sheer physical joy in pulling hard on the oars, sending the boat out upon the shining placid lake. I rowed toward the far end where the forest came down the bank below High Tower, and few hotel guests ventured.

  Yet despite my pleasure in the physical exertion and in being in this heavenly, quiet spot, I felt lonely for Brendon. I realized that management of the hotel’s affairs must now occupy much of his attention. Increasingly, I was coming to recognize how very much Laurel Mountain meant to him, and how much it would demand of him. In New York we had been together every moment, but of course it couldn’t be the same here. Like every bride, I must learn to accept my husband’s absorption in his work. Later perhaps he would tell me more about what he was doing and allow me to share his interests. There hadn’t been time for that as yet.

  Without warning, as I sat with my oars idle, drifting on the water, windy clouds appeared above enclosing treetops and it began to rain. I turned back, rowing strongly. At least it was fortunate that I had the wind behind me and I returned to my mooring faster than I’d gone out.

  This afternoon, because of the rain, I was further thrown back upon the hotel’s resources. First there was lunch to get through.

  We all met at the table again—all except Brendon, who was still in town. Because of finding that quotation in Bartlett’s, it was difficult to sit with them and talk quietly, guarding my tongue, careful to let no suspicious word or glance fall toward any of them—yet all the while wondering which one bore such malice toward either Brendon or me.

  The lunchtime meal was a popular institution at Laurel Mountain House, as Irene told me. A sumptuous buffet was always provided, set out on long tables near the entry door, the food attractively arranged for color contrast and appetizing effect, with great assortments of salads, raw vegetables, cheeses and dishes of crackers and breads, nuts and fruit. There were hot entrées for those who wanted them, but I heaped my plate with a cold sampling and carried it to our table.

  Irene and Loring were already there, and Naomi joined us a little while after I sat down. The same hint of a flowery scent floated about Irene, and her manner at the luncheon table was calm and gentle. Except for the hint of a deepening line between her brows, I would have thought her unworried. She wanted to know about my morning, and I told about climbing to High Tower with Brendon and of my delight over the view.

  “And then?” Naomi leaned toward me, her bright dark eyes intent. “What did you do then?”

  So she knew, I thought. Already Keir must have told her about my visit to the clearing in the woods.

  “I explored,” I said. “I found a stone bull in a grassy glen.”

  Irene gasped softly, and I knew Loring was staring at me with a look that probed, but I kept my attention fixed on Naomi. She had taken off her bandanna, leaving her gray hair wind-tossed, and she hadn’t bothered to smooth it. She wore jeans and a green sweater that folded up in a turtleneck, almost engulfing her small, pointed chin. Before my insistent look, she dropped her gaze, avoiding my eyes.

  “So you found Magnus’ stone bull?” Loring said. “Didn’t you see the sign marked Private?”

  “I saw it. But I live here, don’t I? Surely it isn’t meant to shut out the McClains?”

  Loring grinned rather nastily. “Magnus wouldn’t mind shutting us out. In fact, he once ordered me off the place. It could be that he’ll now have to move down from Rainbow Point. What happened this morning when you went there?”

  I skipped a little of what had happened. “He invited me up to the cabin for coffee.”

  Naomi made a sputtering sound, but Irene smiled.

  “How very nice of him,” she said. “Magnus can be quite kind when he pleases. I’m glad you’ve made friends.”

  “I don’t think we’ve exactly made friends—” I began, and then saw that Naomi seemed to be choking on a bit of celery, her cheeks bright red and her eyes stormy.

  When she caught her breath, she pushed back from the table. “I can’t stand it! It’s going to happen all over again! It’s horrible, horrible!”

  “Calm down,” Loring said and put a hand on her arm.

  She shook it off and stood up. “I don’t have to listen to any of this!” she cried and almost ran the length of the dining room in her anxiety to get away.

  I stared after her in astonishment and then turned to Irene. “What happened? What have I said to upset her?”

  “She’s easily upset,” Loring said. “Pay no attention. She’ll go back to her garden and quiet down. Flowers always soothe her. The next time you see her she’ll be fine.”

  “But what’s wrong? I need to know what’s wrong, so I can be more careful next time. There’s something no one is telling me.”

  Irene bent toward me, her look concerned. “We apologize for her, Jenny. It’s not your fault. It has nothing to do with you. She’s been like that ever since—well—you see, Floris was her friend and—” She let the sentence fall into silence with a slight, helpless shrug, and I saw the line between her eyes had deepened.

  “You mean Floris used to be her friend,” Loring said. “Irene, don’t you think it would be better—”

  She stopped him almost frantically. “No, dear. Please! We want everything to be happy here for Jenny. I’ll talk to Naomi. She mustn’t be allowed to behave like this.”

  I had meant to return to the buffet tables for a second helping, but my appetite was gone. It was Brendon I needed to see. He must be the one to explain. No longer would I let him put me off.

  “When is Brendon coming home?” I asked.

  “He may have gone on up to Albany from Kings Landing,” Loring said. “But he should be home this evening. Business came up that had to be taken care of. He hasn’t exactly been on the ball around here lately.”

  “Now, dear,” Irene said, always the peacemaker.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Loring. “I suppose I’m to blame. But perhaps getting married is important too.”

  “Of course.” Irene’s tone was gentle, affectionate. “And Loring has managed beautifully on his own. Everythin
g has run perfectly.”

  Her husband gave her a look that made her subside apologetically, and I began to dislike him actively. He was attractive, dynamic, clever—and I didn’t in the least like the way he treated Irene, who was so obviously gentle and eager to avoid friction. I thought of Brendon’s words again—“It’s not Eden.” I was beginning to discover the truth of that statement on all sides.

  I finished what I could manage of my lunch while looking out the great picture windows toward the mountains. About us in the huge dining room guests were laughing, chattering, and though this was not a busy week and there were many empty tables, the line at the buffet was continuous. Loring talked to Irene about hotel problems, and I only half listened. I needed something to do besides exploring the grounds, and this idleness made me restive. It gave me too much time to brood and worry.

  “Can you find me something useful to do?” I asked, breaking in on their talk. “I’m used to having a job, and now my days are going to seem empty unless I find something to do here. I won’t even have a house to take care of—no duties at all. And I can’t live without something to do.”

  Irene nodded sympathetically. “Brendon said you painted.”

  “Just little sketches of wild flowers. I’ve thought of collecting them for a book, and I can work from life around here.”

  “Lovely. That will keep you busy.”

  “She can’t paint all the time,” Loring said, surprising me by understanding. “I know a job for you, Jenny. The hotel library is in a thoroughly muddled state. What about setting it in order, working out some sort of filing system? The desk gets complaints every year because guests can’t find anything.”

  I jumped at the opportunity. “I’m sure I can manage that. I used to fill in at the college library once in a while when I was teaching. This morning I looked into the library room and it’s an attractive, sunny place. I’ll be happy to work there.”

  “We don’t buy as many books as we should,” Irene said. “Mostly guests have been generous in giving them to us over the years. There are a lot of old books in there that date back to early in the century and before.”

  “Lovely! They should all be catalogued. I’ll begin this afternoon, if that’s all right with you.”

  Irene looked pleased with her husband for his suggestion, and pleased with me, and when I left the dining room I went directly to the library and took a survey of what needed to be done. There appeared to be no card file, no records of the books available, and I decided that a simple system could be made to work. When I’d looked into one of the offices and equipped myself with a pad and pen and a box of filing cards, I returned and went to work.

  Not until rain slashed against the window panes did I realize that the storm had increased and it was raining harder than ever. A door at one end of the library opened onto a broad veranda overlooking the lake, and I set my work aside for a breather and went out to walk across wide bare boards. This must be an older section, and the veranda was like those I’d seen in photos of turn-of-the-century hotels.

  All along the broad railing chairs had been set—empty now because of the change in weather. The veranda was well sheltered beneath its overhanging roof, however, and though it was cold I walked to a rail and stood looking out over gray water that danced in the rain.

  The view was as beautiful as when the sun was shining. Far above the lake, High Tower stood on its rocky summit with mists wreathing its head. On the opposite shore from the hotel, those enormous boulders of the Wolf’s Lair shone wet in rivulets of rain, and the sight of them drew me with a certain fascination. What had she felt that day—Magnus’ wife—a woman who had been labeled by her father-in-law as unpleasant and neurotic? Had she heard the rock in its tumbling fall? Why hadn’t she run in time to escape?

  I shook myself and returned to my work in the library. Floris Devin had begun to haunt me, and I was increasingly aware that whatever unhappy mystery lingered here had to do with her life and her death. Already I had the feeling that I would see Magnus again, despite his father’s warning, because perhaps he, of them all, might be the source of things I wanted to know. He had the brawn of a blacksmith, and perhaps his work with stone required a similar strength. And yet he had smiled at me once as gently as a child, and though he had been rough, he had not been unkind about my twisted foot. If Brendon would not tell me—Magnus might.

  Loring was another possibility. In fact, he was already on the verge of revealing whatever secrets were being kept from me, and only his wife’s hushing had stopped him from talking. But I didn’t want to hear anything from Loring Grant. Whatever the truth might be, I didn’t want to have it filtered through his cold and merciless personality. His main love seemed to be the hotel he had married into, and he would twist everything to serve that mistress. I felt a little sorry for Irene, whom I already liked, for giving her affection to a man like that.

  I began working on my knees at the far end of the library, pulling out one book at a time from a bottom shelf to enter title, author, publisher and the date of publication on a filing card. It was evident that a vague sort of alphabetical system had once prevailed, and that an attempt had been made to arrange the books by authors. But everything had become so thoroughly mixed over the years that all the books would have to come off the shelves to be put back in the right order. First, however, I would list each book as it came.

  When a guest walked into the room I didn’t look up until she approached and stood beside me.

  “Oh, good!” she said. “Ever since I’ve been coming here, I’ve wished someone would put these shelves in order. By now I’ve read most of the books, but I can’t ever be sure because there’s no system.”

  I pushed the hair from my face and smiled up at the plump, pretty little woman with slightly blue hair who stood looking down at me. I didn’t in the least expect the sudden consternation I saw in her eyes. She stepped back from me with a cry and clapped a hand to her mouth.

  “But—but you can’t be! She—I read that she—was dead!”

  So it had happened again, even in this remote place, and I could feel my smile freeze.

  “No, I’m not my sister Ariel Vaughn,” I told her. “And it is true that she died a few months ago.”

  The little woman dropped into a chair and took a handkerchief from her bag to blot her face. “What a shock you gave me! You look exactly like her. You could be twins.”

  I fought the familiar knot inside me and suppressed an impulse to run. “I suppose you’ve seen her dance?”

  “No—my husband doesn’t care for ballet, so I’ve never gone. But I’ve seen her a dozen times or more right here in this room. I’ve even talked to her, though she wasn’t always friendly. I suppose one can’t blame her. She came here to rest, to run away from the strains and pressures of her life. She told me that once. So of course she wanted to be left alone.”

  I had dropped my head again, so that the dark curtain of hair shielded my face from her eyes. The feeling at the pit of my stomach was as though someone had thrust a fist into it, and I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move.

  “She was so beautiful,” the woman went on, almost wistfully. “Like you are. Only she used to go around in dark glasses, and she wore old clothes when she came here—denim jeans and a man’s shirt. A sort of disguise, I suppose. And now her sister has come to Laurel too. Are you working for the hotel, dear?”

  I managed to thrust the book I held onto a shelf, gathered up my cards and pen and put them away neatly, where I could find them again. My fingers felt like thumbs.

  “I suppose I am working for the hotel,” I said. “I’m Mrs. Brendon McClain.”

  I got up from my knees and walked past her without looking into her face again. Not for anything would I let myself see whatever might be mirrored there. The elevator was waiting and empty, and I took it to the fourth floor, where I got out and walked uncertainly along the corridor. I moved automatically, knowing only that I must get away by myself and be completely al
one. Only then would I dare to examine the information that had been given me so unexpectedly.

  At no time had Ariel ever told me that she had come to a place called Laurel Mountain; True, she sometimes ran away when her nerves grew tense and she couldn’t bear the strain anymore. When there was a free week or two, sometimes she would disappear, but she made a habit of going off alone, and not even Mother always knew where she went. It was the one thing Ariel had been completely secretive about.

  Now I had to face the fact that she had come here. But that was something I couldn’t bear. This place was mine. I didn’t want her to ever have been here. This was, for me, the one safe haven that my sister had never invaded.

  My thoughts were taking me along a dangerous road, and I was fearful of what I might find at the end.

  At the door of our rooms I stopped to take out my key, but in the act of slipping it into a lock a sound reached me and I paused, listening. Far off, somewhere in another section of the hotel, someone was playing a piano. But the pianist who worked for the hotel played only in the evening, and he couldn’t be heard up here anyway.

  I left the door and walked down the corridor, away from our rooms into a portion of the hotel that I had not yet explored. My ankle was not bothering me now and I could walk almost normally. I followed the narrowing hall around a jog into a still older section and passed the alcove of stairs to the roof. Now the music reached me more clearly. Someone in a room on this floor was playing.

  The music was light and gay—melodic—and as I recognized it I felt again a prickling of the skin at the back of my neck. That was the dance of the little swans—from Swan Lake. Ariel had used it sometimes to practice to, and it would always speak to me of her.

  The music drew me now, hypnotically. I went on along the hall toward an open door at the far end, from which the music was emerging in an unbroken flow of sound.

  5

  The entrance to the apparently large room at the end was through double doors, and as I approached I could see that it had once been some sort of meeting room that had served this older part of the hotel. It was empty now, with only a folding chair or two set against the wall, and the piano out of sight around to the left of the door.