When Emmalynn Remembers

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I wish I could pretend it was just a fun adventure,” Billie said, her voice serious. “I tried at first, but—”

  “I know,” I said.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I suggest we go select our bedrooms,” I said. “There’ll be plenty of time to change before he returns, and I for one would like a hot shower. We can cook dinner when he gets back with the groceries, and later on we can make plans—”

  We walked down the hall and up the spiral staircase that curled darkly to the second floor. Dust was everywhere, and the air was fetid. We would have to do quite a lot of cleaning if we intended to stay here for a few days, I thought. The house had been closed up tight, and decay had already begun to encroach, working slowly and steadily. I was determined to throw open all the windows and bring light and air back into the house, at least into the rooms we would be using.

  The upper hallway was long and wide. The curtains were drawn back from the windows at both ends, and sunlight poured through, long rays stirring with dust motes. The staircase continued to curl on up to the attics above. We stood in the hall. The lower half was covered with dark wormwood wainscoting, dark brown and orange wallpaper reaching on up to the brown ceiling. At either end the hall turned to extend through the wings that reached out behind the house. Fifty years ago whole families must have congregated here for the summer, and the rooms must have rung with the voices of dozens of children on holiday, but now there was only a dense silence that seemed to wrap itself around us and warn us to move quietly. There were at least a dozen doors opening off this main hallway, and all of them were closed. For some reason both Billie and I were hesitant to open any of them.

  “Well, we can’t just stand here—” I said finally.

  “I’ve never seen such ugly wallpaper,” Billie replied. Both of us were speaking in whispers.

  “William Morris,” I informed her. “It was all the rage half a hundred years ago.”

  “What a bizarre pattern, little birds and unicorns and strange flowers I’ve never seen before, maroon and orange and brown. Can you imagine living with such paper? And that wormwood—”

  “Come on,” I whispered. “Let’s select our rooms.”

  The rooms were all dark, all smelling of dust, all filled with dark heavy furniture, but we finally found two that would do. They were near the end of the hall, two bedrooms with a large dressing room and bath connecting them. I was dubious about the bathroom at first. The tub was dark green marble with black veins and all the fixtures were of tarnished brass, shaped like dolphins and lions’ claws. I turned a faucet and rusty water spewed into the marble sink. After a moment the dirty yellow color vanished and the water looked fairly clean. While I was doing this Billie discovered a huge linen closet filled with sheets and pillow cases kept fresh in heavy plastic bags, still smelling of lavender. At least we would have running water and fresh linen, I thought, slightly encouraged.

  “It’s not going to be so bad,” Billie remarked. “I’ve always wanted to stay in a red room, and this one is certainly red—”

  She stood in the opened doorway and peered into the room. Dark crimson paper covered the walls, embossed with darker red leaves, and the black oak bed had canopy and hangings of scarlet satin. Billie parted all the crimson draperies and opened the windows to let in fresh air. The canopy billowed, and the sparkling sunlight gleamed on the dark furniture. A murky blue mirror with an ornate gold frame reflected the room, and there was a chair of worn red velvet with gold fringe, a dresser with a marble top, and bouquet of brown and green wax flowers under glass setting on the enormous highboy. A framed brown lithograph of Queen Victoria hung on one wall, staring down rather accusingly at Billie as she cavorted about the room and examined all.

  “It’s priceless!” she exclaimed. “It’ll be rather like sleeping in a museum, but fun. This place really isn’t so bad, Em. We’ll just have to get used to it.”

  I was glad to see some of her lively spirits return and wished that I could feel some of her sudden enthusiasm. We went down to get the suitcases and then put fresh linens on the beds. Billie went into the bathroom, hoping to master the ancient plumbing and manage a bath, and I waited in the room I had chosen for myself.

  It was a little less spectacular than Billie’s, the walls covered with gold and ivory striped paper, sadly faded, the carpet dark beige and the furniture golden oak with a highly varnished gloss. Yellow satin hangings draped the bed, and there was a chaise lounge covered with ivory velvet. A set of prints hung on the wall depicting a Victorian family playing croquet and having a picnic by the sea. I had thrown back the heavy ivory curtains and opened all the windows. Fresh air and sunlight swirled into the room dispelling some of the dank odor and gloom.

  I heard a loud shriek, then a torrent of water, and I assumed Billie had finally been successful with the bath. I stepped over to a window and leaned on the sill, looking out past the shaggy green lawn that sloped down to the beach. Water slapped against the boathouse and pier, and it sloshed over the shingles and sand. The house would never be free of the sound of the sea. From this distance it sounded like loud breathing, and the sound was not pleasant.

  I watched a seagull swirl against the jade green sky, dipping down to glide over the blue-gray waves. The beach looked so desolate and bleak. It was overgrown with weeds, littered with driftwood and shells. There was a kind of beauty there, but it was a beauty that invited solemn thoughts and threatened one’s sanity. The house, the beach, the atmosphere of the whole place seemed to warn, to threaten.

  I heard a car approaching. In a moment Boyd Devlon drove up in front of the house and got out of the car, carrying a large sack of groceries. I stepped back a little, afraid he might look up and see me watching him. He balanced the sack in his arm and strolled across the yard. As he came nearer, the house I could see the smile on his lips, a curious smile, brash, almost mischievious, and I wondered about this man who moved about so confidently, who insinuated that I had known him far better than it would have been wise to know a man like Boyd Devlon.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BILLIE HAD INSISTED on cooking dinner herself. That was something she never did, but it was necessary for Boyd Devlon to give her lengthy instructions on how to use the stove, and I assumed the opportunity to be alone with him had more to do with it than any desire to please me. They were both in the kitchen now, and I stood on the front veranda, watching the last rays of sunlight stain the sky with dark orange banners.

  It had happened out here, just a few yards from where I was standing. Billie had assured me that the bloodstains were still visible, but I did not have the courage to look for myself. I braced myself, trying not to let fear and hysteria grip me. I had not wanted to come, but now I was here and I had to be sensible about it. I couldn’t let my fancy run away with me. A horrible, grisly murder had been committed, but it had happened six months ago, and the house was just a house. It was not haunted. It was not under a curse. It was just old and decrepit. The veranda was just a veranda, even if an old woman had been horribly mutilated with an axe and all the bloodstains hadn’t been scrubbed away.

  Why had it happened out here? I wondered. What was she doing on the veranda? She had been all alone in the old house. According to the papers Boyd Devlon had been in Brighton visiting friends the night it happened. He had discovered the body when he returned to the house in the early hours of the morning. For a moment, as I stood gripping the railing and staring at the beach without seeing it, I gave my imagination free reign. She may have been sitting in the parlor, very late, and someone knocked on the door. She had hobbled down the hall with her cane, and she had peered out the window at whoever stood standing there in the shadows. She had opened the door and stepped out on the veranda, ready to argue, and then the axe began to hack and cut and she had fallen, screaming, and the blood gushed and flooded the porch and ran between the boards and dripped down the steps. The head had rolled across the porch and lodged against the pickets of the
very railing I gripped so tensely now.

  I closed my eyes, and my heart was pounding. No, I told myself, no! I can’t think about it. It’s over. They arrested Burt Reed. They found the axe buried beneath the shrubbery in back of his cottage. He died in jail. His son claims the man was innocent, but the police arrested him just the same. It’s over. It’s over—and I must not think about it. I can’t let myself think about it—

  I wanted to run back into the house and tell Billie to pack her things and I wanted to get in the car and drive away from this place and forget it ever existed, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t run away again. I took a deep breath and folded my arms around my body. There was a gentle breeze, and it cooled my cheeks and blew locks of auburn hair about my temples. The moment of panic departed, and I was calm again.

  I thought about Henrietta Stern as I had known her. All her glory was vanished by that time, and she was just a miserable old woman who drifted about Europe with a paid companion, but I knew that years ago, decades ago, she had been the toast of society, a flamboyant, eccentric beauty who had sparkled like a Roman candle for a few brief years. She had made many enemies, and she had bragged about them. Even during the years I had known her and traveled with her feuds had kept her in a constant state of excitement. A month never passed that there was not a running battle with someone. Henrietta loved a scrap, and the only thing that bothered her was that her opponents were no longer worthy. She fought with porters and clerks and landlords when once, she assured me, she had fought with statesmen and powerful matrons, the men who shaped history and the women who changed it. She was a pitiful creature, who mourned the glories of the past while despising the bleakness of the present.

  People had tolerated her because of her wealth. Money, or the promise of money, had smoothed the way wherever she went, and the most outrageous conduct was overlooked because Henrietta Stern was known to have a fortune, although most of it was tied up in real estate and investments. A few people remembered her—one of those names that had blazed in the headlines of all the papers during the late twenties and early thirties before vanishing into oblivion. It was ironic that after almost thirty years of obscurity she should have hit the headlines again, not as a celebrity of the past but as the victim of a sensational murder. The newspapers had dwelled upon the crime in great detail, but not one of them had mentioned her past glories. She had been an eccentric old woman who had chosen to stay in a crumbling seaside estate when she could have been living in a plush London apartment, and none of the reporters had been remotely interested in what she might have been thirty years before.

  What a strange life she had led, and what a horrible way it had ended. I blamed myself in part for that. I couldn’t help but feel that if I hadn’t left her alone she would still be alive today. I had had little affection for her, but I had been grateful to her. She had rescued me when I was all alone and penniless. She had taken me all over Europe, bought me expensive new clothes, new books. She had given me a genuine pearl necklace. She had been a tyrant, demanding absolute devotion and loyalty, but, in her way, she had been fond of me. I was all she had, and I had shown my gratitude by deserting her, leaving her to be murdered in such a brutal manner.

  It was not good to think about it. If I thought about it much I would have to leave quickly, while I still had my sanity.

  The sky was growing darker, and I wondered how long it would take Billie to cook dinner. I privately doubted if she could even open a can without performing a surprise appendectomy, but she had been so determined that I had seen no point in arguing. I smiled, imagining her trying to cope with the ancient stove, and I half expected to hear a loud explosion at any moment. But Boyd Devlon was with her, and if I knew Billie she would make him her captive before much time had elapsed—or try. I doubted if anyone could completely subjugate a man like him.

  I looked up, startled out of my revery. A car was coming down the road towards the house, the motor purring silkily. It circled the drive in front of the house and came to a stop, a sleek gray car with gleaming chrome and a black leather interior. A man got out, and at first I did not recognize him. It had been a long, long time. He came towards the veranda, and when he saw me standing there he stopped, looking up at me. A smile curled on his wide, thin lips.

  Gordon Stuart had not changed. He was tall and thin with a lean, handsome face and a strong jaw, a slightly crooked nose and piercing blue eyes with lids that drooped a bit at the corners. His brows were heavy, arched demonically, and his steel gray hair was cut close to the skull. He had a ruthless face that fascinated women and disturbed men who had to do business with him. He was smooth and polished, his raw silk suit expensively tailored, his tie a dark, subdued red. But for all his surface gloss there was something of the buccaneer about Gordon Stuart. At nineteen I had been highly susceptible to his rakish charm. At twenty-five it left me unmoved. With his dubious business deals, his careless disregard for others, Gordon was a hawk in a predatory world, and I wanted to have nothing to do with him. I stared at him coldly.

  “Is it really you?” he said. His voice was rough and grating, but it had a curious musical quality nevertheless. It was an attractive voice. I used to think it was like silk being torn slowly into shreds.

  “Hello, Gordon,” I said.

  He strolled up the steps and stood a few feet away from me, the smile still twisting on his lips. His blue eyes glittered with male appreciation, and I was glad I had changed into my new yellow dress and had brushed my long auburn locks. I felt a slight blush coloring my cheeks, and I looked away from him, remembering what I had felt for him so long ago and wondering how I could have been so naive, even at nineteen.

  “You’ve changed,” he said.

  “Have I?”

  “The shy little girl with the downcast eyes and trembling mouth has blossomed into a woman—” He paused, his eyes sweeping over me. “Quite a beautiful woman,” he added.

  “What do you want, Gordon?”

  “My Dear, are you afraid of me?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “You’re so—defensive. I didn’t come here to murder you—”

  I turned and glared at him, and he chuckled quietly. “Sorry. A mistaken choice of words. Tactless of me. This is where it happened, isn’t it? Right here on his porch—”

  He turned to examine the veranda as though he were examining a picture in a museum. He stepped over in front of the door and peered down at the dark stains that still streaked the boards. He shook his head slowly, one heavy black brow tilted up. There was something cold and merciless about the way he examined the place where his sister had been murdered. I knew he had never cared for her, but I wondered how anyone could be so brutally objective about anything so horrible.

  “Why did you come here, Gordon?”

  “Why—to see you, My Dear.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Do you?”

  “There was a time when you weren’t so eager to see me—”

  He smiled the silken smile. He slid one long hand into the pocket of his jacket and toyed with his tie with the other. “So you still hold that early indiscretion against me?” he said smoothly. “Good. That means it isn’t quite over. You still think about me. Women may hate me for a while but they never forget me.”

  “You’re incredibly arrogant, Gordon.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m no hypocrite. Honesty is so often mistaken for arrogance these days. People want sugar coating, false modesty, sham. I’ve got no time for those particular virtues. I believe a man should—”

  “I’m not interested in your philosophy,” I said, interrupting him.

  “No? There are far more interesting subjects we can pursue. I understand you’re a photographer’s assistant now. Clive Courtney, no less. You started at the top. He’s very in at the moment. Do you enjoy the work?”

  “It’s satisfactory.”

  “Much more exciting than indulging the whims of a sulky old woman, I’d imagine. You
were made for excitement—I sensed it years ago, when you were still just a girl. You hid your flame far too long. I’m glad to see it glowing.”

  I didn’t reply. I stood by the railing, cool, distant, trying hard to control myself. He was goading me, gently, cautiously, trying to make me break down so that I would be easier to manage. Gordon Stuart brought out all my bad qualities, and it was hard to hold them in check. I wanted to shout at him and order him off the property, but I knew that was what he would like for me to do so that he could be calm and superior.

  “Are you in Brighton for long?” I inquired, my voice frostily polite.

  “For a few days.”

  “What brings you here?”

  “Oh—a number of things.”

  “Why do you want the house, Gordon? We both know that’s why you’ve come here.”

  The abrupt question seemed to catch him off guard. He frowned slightly, a deep crease between his brows. Gordon Stuart liked to handle things his own way, use his own tactics, and it irritated him that I had disobeyed the rules of polite banter. He ran his fingers over his steel gray hair and gave me a little nod.

  “You’re still as sharp as ever,” he said.

  “I know you. I know you never want anything without a reason. Why do you want the house?”

  “It should have been mine, you know,” he said quietly. “Henrietta left everything to me in the original will. The courts favored the second will, as you know, but I’m still a bit dubious about it—” He shrugged his shoulders elegantly. “But that squabble is over. It’s just a run down old house that has no real value.”

  “Then why are you so intent on having it?”

  “I have my reasons, Emmalynn.”

  “I’d like to hear them.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. Business reasons. I—uh—need a tax loss. I intend to turn this place into a resort hotel—a disasterous venture, of course, but a very smart one taxwise, my lawyers assure me. I’ll pay you handsomely—very handsomely, because you’re Emmalynn and because I have a fond affection for you.”