Jameson put the car in park and ran after him, tackling from behind and knocking him to the ground. Creighton got up, but Jameson grabbed him by the arms before he could flee. “Don’t be a jackass!” he warned, restraining the man. “If you go rushing in there, you’ll get yourself shot.”
Creighton struggled to break free. “But Marjorie.”
“We don’t know that she’s been hurt. Those shots could have been to frighten her. But if you go barging in there, you might get her killed.” Creighton relaxed and Jameson loosened his grip. “I’m going to radio for backup and then we’ll go in, nice and slow.”
Creighton waited helplessly by the front steps while Jameson went back to the car. He stared at the house, his eyes burning a hole through the front door that he so eagerly wished to enter. It seemed like hours before Jameson returned, carrying a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other.
He passed the flashlight to Creighton and drew the hammer back on the gun. “Let me go in first,” he whispered as they approached the door. Creighton nodded and turned the doorknob as Jameson readied his aim.
The door creaked open ominously, and Jameson moved stealthily inside. Finding the doorway clear, he motioned Creighton to follow. The Englishman shone the flashlight into the dark hallway and began moving it to and fro, like a miniature spotlight, to scan the entire room. Seeing nothing but wood paneling, they stepped farther into the house to investigate the other rooms. Jameson motioned to the door on his left, and Creighton highlighted the doorknob with the flashlight. As Jameson turned the knob, they heard a soft, plaintive moan from the other end of the hall.
The two men exchanged worried glances and made their way, cautiously, down the corridor and to the library door. There, Creighton’s flashlight picked out the body of Dr. Benjamin Russell. The Englishman knelt down and felt the man’s neck for a pulse; detecting none, he looked at Jameson and shook his head.
There was another moan, this time a few feet away from them. In the wan light of the stained glass window, Creighton discerned the body of a young woman, slumped against the base of the wall. He shone the flashlight on her. “Marjorie!” They rushed to her side.
“Marjorie, who did this to you? Dr. Russell?” Jameson demanded.
She gave a faint shake of the head, and then whispered, “William. William Van Allen.”
“Where did William go, Marjorie?”
Marjorie’s eyes opened wide and she struggled to sit up. “Mary!” she exclaimed. “He’s after Mary!”
Creighton knelt down and quieted her. “Shhh . . . don’t move. We’ll find her.” He lifted her gingerly and cradled her head in his arms. “Do you know where she is?”
“The dumbwaiter . . . I lowered her . . . she should be outside by now,” she replied breathlessly.
By this time, Noonan had arrived on the scene. He stepped into the room, took one look at the dead body, another at the wounded writer and muttered an astonished, “Jeez.” “I’ll call for an ambulance,” he announced before retreating the way he had entered.
“Where does the dumbwaiter let out?” Jameson asked Creighton.
“Downstairs. The kitchen. There’s a staircase on the side of the house.” Creighton removed a hand from Marjorie’s back to gesture toward the direction of the staircase. As he did so, the color drained from Jameson’s face. Creighton looked at his hand and saw that it was covered in blood. In horror, he let his arm sink to the floor.
“Noonan and I will find the girl,” the detective explained, trying to retain his professionalism. “You stay with Marjorie until the ambulance comes.” Taking the flashlight with him, he headed toward the library door. He paused a moment in the doorframe. “And Creighton, take care of her.”
The Englishman nodded solemnly and Jameson took off down the hallway and out the front door, where he met up with Officer Noonan. “Ambulance is on its way,” the ruddy-faced man stated.
“Let’s hope it’s in time,” the detective replied anxiously, and ran to the side of the house. “The little girl’s missing. She may have come out this way.”
Noonan followed his superior to the kitchen door. “A child’s footprints,” he observed, staring down at the snow. “Looks like they lead to the backyard.”
Jameson took note of another, larger set of impressions, sometimes running parallel to, and other times overlapping Mary’s footprints. “She’s not alone. Van Allen’s hot on her trail. Come on,” he urged his officer. “We have to get to her before he does.” Jameson cocked his gun and took off like a shot, tracking the prints past the pool and into the garden. Noonan pulled a revolver from his holster and took off after him, his stocky body surprisingly agile.
Jameson traced the footprints out of the garden, through a clearing and into the woods, where roots and fallen trees obscured the trail. Hearing the snapping of a twig a few feet ahead of him, he came to a halt and scanned the area with his flashlight. Before him stretched the grave of Victor Bartorelli, and standing over it, the figure of William Van Allen, the revolver in his hand pointed into the open ditch.
Jameson aimed his gun at the man’s chest. Noonan, a few paces behind him, did the same. “Hartford County Police!” the detective shouted. “Drop your weapon!”
William did not respond but to smile at his adversaries.
“Drop it!” Jameson demanded again, but the man did not comply. Instead he drew back the hammer of his gun and prepared to shoot. The detective, hearing the click, fired his gun, sending a bullet straight into William’s heart.
Van Allen, clutched his chest, the same curious smile on his face, and fell headlong into the grave he had dug five years ago.
Jameson and Noonan put away their weapons and charged toward the grave. Peering downward, they saw the missing little girl cowering beneath a piece of canvas tarpaulin, the body of William Van Allen sprawled before her.
“Stay there, sweetheart,” Jameson urged, passing Noonan the flashlight. He jumped into the grave, bundled the girl in his arms, tarpaulin and all, and passed her up to Noonan.
The stocky man removed his coat and wrapped the trembling girl in it, tenderly. “It’s all right, angel,” the normally gruff officer cooed. “You’re safe now. Put your head on Officer Noonan’s shoulder and close your eyes, and before you know it you’ll be back home.”
Jameson watched as Noonan turned and carried Mary back to the house.
“Wait one minute!” the detective shouted, after spying the little girl’s doll lying inches away from William Van Allen’s body. “You forgot your doll.”
Noonan hurried back and Jameson retrieved the toy from the floor of the burial chamber. Apparently shaken loose by the fall, the doll’s head popped off and rolled to the ground, discharging a wad of newspaper and a small, shiny object. Jameson leaned down to examine the object and saw it was a golden, circular band, adorned with the largest diamond he had ever seen. He held it in the beam of the flashlight. “The Du Barry ring. Hidden all these years in the head of a little girl’s doll.”
Noonan smiled at the irony. “Talk about your million dollar babies.”
TWENTY-NINE
Wheezing and coughing, Marjorie was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. She longed to shut her eyes, to relinquish herself to sleep, oblivion, peace, but she couldn’t rest until she knew Mary was safe. Creighton’s arms tightened around her, and she looked up at him with a smile. “I told you Gloria didn’t do it,” she said to ease his tension.
He smiled back, tenderly. “You picked a hell of a way to prove it.”
“I never was the type to take the easy way out,” she replied with a shiver, as a terrible chill swept over her.
Creighton removed his coat and enfolded her in it. Marjorie made a feeble attempt to push it away. “No. The blood. It will be ruined.”
“I’ll buy another one,” he answered, tucking her in tightly.
“No,” she argued. “I’ll buy you another one.”
The Englishman chuckled at her indefatigability.
“You’ll pay for it out of the proceeds of your next book, I suppose. Like the dress you wore to Gloria’s party.”
“Precisely,” she whispered.
“Then you’d better get writing, instead of lying there on your back,” he mock ordered. “No more lollygagging about for you. There’s work to be done.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she saluted.
From the hallway, they heard the slam of the front door and then footsteps approaching; it was Detective Jameson. “How is she?” he asked of Creighton.
“Hanging in there,” the Englishman replied.
The detective gave a brief nod of the head. “We found the girl. She’s safe. A few cuts and bruises, but other than that, she’s fine. Noonan’s with her now in the squad car, waiting for the doctor to come and give her the final okay.”
“And William?” Creighton asked.
“Dead. I shot him.” He looked longingly at Marjorie. “I want to stay, but I have to contact the coroner’s office.”
“That’s all right, Robert,” Marjorie pardoned. “It’s your job.”
The detective frowned. “Yeah, well, I’ll, um, check on that ambulance while I’m at it.” He turned on one heel and headed back down the hall.
“Did you hear that, Marjorie?” Creighton asked excitedly. “Mary’s safe. She’s safe and it’s all because of you. You saved her. Now there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about except getting better.”
“She’s safe,” Marjorie repeated, crying. “She’s safe. She’s safe . . .” The words had a sedating effect upon her. Her job was done. She closed her eyes and sank deeper into Creighton’s arms. The pain that racked her entire body began to melt away, and she was less aware of the world around her. She could not hear the sound of Creighton’s voice as it called to her, softly at first, then more urgently. Nor could she feel the dampness of his tears as they fell gently upon her face.
She was engulfed within a world of darkness, a darkness that swirled about her, caressing her with velvet fingertips, drawing her farther into its depths. Too exhausted to fight, Marjorie easily succumbed to the shadows and found that despite the absence of light, there was, in this realm, a sense of warmth, security, and absolute tranquility.
At once, there was a blinding flash of light. When the glare evaporated, she found herself in her own living room. She was a girl again, curled upon her father’s lap, his sheltering arms enclosing her. He was reading to her, as he often did on cool autumn evenings, telling her tales of princes and princesses, of witches and fairy godmothers. She smelled the must of the aged, oft-turned pages. She listened to the familiar words and the rise and fall of her father’s voice resonate deep within her consciousness. How often had she wished to hear that sound again.
Exuberant, she glanced behind her in order to gaze upon her father’s well-weathered countenance, but sadly, it was not visible. There were fleeting images of his ink-stained fingers, shards of light that reflected from his wire-framed spectacles, but his face and figure remained in total obscurity.
Marjorie cast about frantically in search of him, hoping to catch a glimpse of those kindly hazel eyes, praying that her hands might meet his. But, as she searched, she realized that the setting had changed. She was no longer on her father’s lap, or even in her own house. She had been transported to Mrs. Patterson’s backyard, not as she knew it now, but as it used to be, before Mrs. Patterson had become too old to tend the roses, or trim the hedges, before the lawn had turned brown and brittle and ivy had engulfed the white picket fences.
Marjorie sank her bare feet into the thick green carpet of grass. Gone were the silk stockings and high-heeled shoes of womanhood. Gone were the long skirts, too, for she could feel the golden beams of the sun beating upon her legs. She lifted her face so that it, too, could bask in the warm radiance. As she did, she took note of the sky—a flawless pale azure—and her heart was filled with a sudden sorrow. As much as she wished to remain in this idyllic landscape, she did not belong here. Something, be it memory or longing, was calling her home . . .
EPILOGUE
As is the way of sleepy, New England towns, it was not long before the excitement over the Kensington House incident, as it came to be known, died down and life in Ridgebury went on as it always had. However, for those involved with the Van Allen case, life would never be the same again.
Both the Russell and Stafford homes were stripped of their furnishings and left abandoned until new owners could be found. Mary was released to the care of her grandmother and left town to spend the remainder of her formative years in New Jersey. Marjorie spent several weeks in the hospital being treated for a shattered collarbone, a punctured lung, and three broken ribs before being released to the care of Mrs. Patterson. Detective Jameson received a commendation for his heroics at Kensington House, and called on Marjorie frequently enough that the townsfolk declared them “inseparable.”
As for Creighton, he finally moved into his new home, and with the help of his servants, swiftly restored it to the showplace it was intended to be. As promised, he arranged a celebratory dinner to mark the close of the Van Allen case. At Marjorie’s urging, he held it, not at Andre’s, but in the dining room of Kensington House, and, for his own motives, scheduled it for an evening when Jameson was on duty and unable to attend.
After dining on a sumptuous dinner of champagne, shrimp cocktail, poached salmon, and chocolate soufflé, Creighton and Marjorie retired to the library and occupied the two leather wing chairs that flanked either side of the fireplace. Creighton, bypassing tea or coffee, cradled a large snifter of cognac in his hand. Marjorie, staring pensively at the fire, stirred her cup of coffee distractedly.
“Life isn’t fair,” she declared. “Poor Mary not only lost her family, but she lost her shot at financial security, as well. Why did they have to return the Du Barry ring to Gloria, anyway? It’s obvious Henry gave it to Stella as a gift.”
“The police have no proof of that,” he explained. “Stella could just as easily have stolen it. She had the combination to the safe.”
“It stands to reason that Henry gave her the ring. Stella loved him, otherwise she wouldn’t have taken her life. A woman isn’t going to steal from a man she loves,” she argued. “The only thing I don’t understand is why she hid it in the doll’s head.”
Creighton shrugged. “Apparently she wanted Mary to have it. Whether she told her sister that it was there, or she simply counted on the head popping off, we’ll never know.”
Marjorie bit her lip. “It’s a shame. Mrs. Munson and Mary need that money more than Gloria Van Allen does.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Munson is too interested in money, otherwise she would have consented to Mary’s paternity test.” He shook his head. “No, I think she realizes that there are things that money can’t buy.”
She took a sip from her cup. “You’re right, of course. But it would have been nice to have for the future, in case Mary wants to further her education.”
“I shouldn’t worry about that,” Creighton commented cryptically.
“Why not?”
“I opened a small trust fund in Mary’s name. She’ll receive it on her eighteenth birthday.” His voice took on a forbidding tone. “But I wish to remain anonymous in this matter. Do you understand?”
Marjorie nodded, but the expression on her face was something akin to hero worship. “That’s so nice of you. I didn’t—”
“Oh, no you don’t,” he interrupted. “Stop it right now.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what you’re doing,” he accused.
“No. I can’t say that I do.”
“You’re sitting there, suiting me up in my shining armor.”
“Armor? No, I think it’s very kind of you, that’s all.”
“It’s not kindness, Marjorie. It’s moral obligation. I am heartily obliged to give back to society what it gave to me.”
“But not everyone in your position feels that sense of obligation.�
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“No, perhaps they don’t, but I would expect you, of all people, would be able to understand my desire to set things right.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” he grinned. “Tell me, what did you do with that five-hundred-dollar check Gloria gave you?”
She stared into her coffee cup, and felt her cheeks grow warmer. “I cashed it.”
“And then what?” he prodded.
“I put it in my bank account,” she snapped hastily, hoping to end this line of questioning.
“You’re lying,” he accused. “I saw Mr. Schutt the other day, whistling, happy as a lark. He told me that Gloria repaid the debt that Henry owed him, in cash, and had written a formal letter of apology. The letter, as if you didn’t know, was typed on Van Allen Industries letterhead.”
“And from where would I get Van Allen Industries letterhead?”
“Evelyn Hadley. She gave you a whole stack of it when we interviewed her at her office. So, it would appear that I’m not the only person in this town who feels a sense of higher moral obligation.”
“Honestly,” she sighed. “There’s such a thing as being too smart for your own good.” Creighton laughed, but Marjorie would not be put off. “Well, whatever I might have done for Mr. Schutt, it still doesn’t compare to the gesture you made to Mary and her grandmother.”
He breathed a heavy sigh and regarded her in a fatherly fashion. “My dear Marjorie. You shouldn’t place people on pedestals, especially mere mortals like myself. We’re bound to fall off of them.” He paused for a moment and took a drink of brandy. “And in my particular case, I’d fall so far in your esteem that you’d fire me as your editor.”
She giggled. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous? How? Do you mean you wouldn’t dream of getting rid of me?” His eyes narrowed and the grin disappeared from his face. “Or do you mean that I couldn’t possibly fall any lower in your esteem?”
Marjorie laughed, but she felt uneasy. Was there not just a hint of bitterness in Creighton’s tone? In an effort to avoid confrontation, she turned her head and concentrated on a spot in the hearth.
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