by Joan Smith
I stared towards the door. The door is an aged, dark-panelled piece of wood. Its rectangle was easily distinguishable against the lighter wallpaper. I would see if it moved, but first I would hear if he tried to insert a key. He could not possibly have a key. I was safe, and tomorrow he would be gone. That was hardly a cheering thought either. Otto’s annual visit had been the emotional lodestar of my life for so many years that I could not imagine life without it. There hardly seemed any point in existing.
As I lay thinking these morose thoughts, I was seized with the absurd idea that I was not alone in the room. It is impossible to describe the sensation, for it has no basis in physical reality. I did not hear a sound, or see a moving shadow, or smell a different smell. It was just a feeling, but so strong a feeling that it became a certainty in my mind.
Someone was in my room, and I lay rigid with fear, afraid to breathe. My heart throbbed heavily, and a cold perspiration bathed my brow. Rational thought was impossible. He was here, in my room, peering at me through the concealing shadows, waiting to pounce.
He had found a way in after all. Was there a secret panel I was unaware of? A priest’s hole, a trapdoor in the ceiling? After ten years of occupancy, I knew there was no such thing. He had somehow got hold of a key. I remembered his trip beyond Littlehorn, supposedly to speak to Skelling, but the locksmith also lived beyond Littlehorn. He must have gotten in while I dozed.
That was my last semi-rational thought. It was cut off by the soft, padding sound of unshod feet rushing from the corner by the clothes-press. Once he decided to move, he moved with the speed and certainty of a jungle cat leaping on its prey. There was no time to seize my knife. In the split second that I realized what was happening, I reached under the pillow for it, but it was not there. It had slipped, or shifted beyond my grasp. I tried to rise, but before my head was off the pillow, a man leaped onto the bed and seized my shoulders. With his full strength, he pressed me down against the mattress.
I could not see his size or shape or grasp any idea of his face. He was a brute force, too strong for me to overcome. His legs straddled my body, pinioning me to the bed, and suddenly he was pushing a softly suffocating pillow against my face. I turned my head aside and screamed as loudly as my condition allowed. The muffled scream was weak, even to my own ears. No one beyond the room could possibly hear it.
He didn’t speak, not a word. The silence was worse than threats. It seemed inhuman. The only sound was his laboured breathings, and the almost inaudible scuffle of our bodies wrestling on the feather tick as I fought for my life. His dead weight sat on my stomach, making it impossible for me to use my legs to any effect. My arms flailed, trying to dislodge his hands from the pillow. He moved one hand to seize my wrists. I managed to pull my head free from the suffocating pillow and shouted, a little louder this time. Desperation lent me strength. He had a firm grip on one arm, but I kept the other from him.
I heard a sound from the next room, Mrs. Manner’s room, that had been vacant since her death. In my disordered mental state, I thought for a moment that it was she, back from the dead to save me. Anything seemed possible that moment. The laboured breathing above me deepened to an angry, inhuman growl. The dead weight shifted upwards, and I felt his chest press against my face as he grappled to get hold of my head. His fingers were in my hair, wrenching my head back under the pillow. I struggled with all my force, but there was a sinewy strength in his arms.
At some instinctive level of consciousness my mind was struggling to learn who was killing me. A person had the right to know that, at least. Gregory, Horatio, Otto ... I fought the awful knowledge, but there was no denying the truth. It was Otto who had been lurking about my room; Otto who was in desperate need of money; Otto who had tried to lure me into marriage by forging letters. Having failed in that, he had come to kill me now, while he had the chance. I hardly had the heart to go on struggling, but the instinct for survival is an overwhelming force. A cornered rat will attack a dog fifty times its size.
I wrenched my hand free from his groping fingers to seek a weapon on the bedside table. The lamp, the decanter, my Bible—anything I could pick up to aim at his head. He seized my hand just as my fingers closed over the neck of the decanter. I managed to hold on to my puny weapon, but he saw, or sensed it, and pulled it from me. It slipped, hitting the lamp. A jarring crash ensued as the lamp rattled to the floor. I was caught off-guard a moment, and the man’s hands now found their way around my neck. He was finished with the subtlety of a pillow. He was going to strangle the life out of me with his bare hands. The ends of his hot fingers pressed into my throat. I felt the blood throb against those pressing fingers, measuring my last heartbeats.
While consciousness remained I fought back. My fingernails clawed at those strong fingers squeezing the breath of life from me, but they clawed in vain. He had the strength, and the endurance, of desperation. I heard faint echoes of falling footsteps in the distance, a slamming door, and realized dimly that help was on its way. But I feared it would be too late. Already life was stealing away. My lungs felt as if they had collapsed, or burst. Darkness fell like sudden nightfall over my mind, softening the horror of it all. Just when it should have been over, the man’s hands relaxed on my throat. I took a rasping, painful gulp of air, and heard the door to the hall rattle on its hinges.
An overwrought voice called, “Jessica! Jessica! Are you all right? Let me in.” It sounded like an hysterical echo coming from far away.
My assailant finally opened his mouth to release an ugly flow of profanities. I still did not recognize the voice, but it matched its owner’s ferocity. Anger lent it a harsh, barking tone. He leaped from the bed and made a dash for the window. I was too weak to try to stop him. I lay gasping against the pillows. I was still conscious, however, and heard my door being kicked and battered down. Across the room, my assailant was yanking the draperies from the window in his haste to escape by the only other exit.
As the draperies fell, moonlight flooded the chamber, showing me the slender silhouette of Felix Chapman, his face distorted with fear, wide eyes staring at the door, which was giving way. He stood a moment in indecision, then began trying to wrench open the mullioned window that I had fastened with the strips of wood. The irony of it escaped me at the time—that I should have trapped my murderer in the room, rather than keeping him out.
He was still there, trying to pull the mullioned windows open, when Otto stormed in and made a flying lunge at him. I was too spent to do anything but watch and listen as Felix was thrown against the window. The pane shattered in a noisy explosion. Shards of glass flew about the room. After a moment I remembered my knife, and felt around until I found it. During my restless sleep, it had worked its way across the bed to become lodged under the edge of the pillow on the far side. I seized it, but already I could see it would not be necessary to use it. Felix was easily overcome. His life amongst the classics had not prepared him for a physical contest with someone like Otto. I almost felt sorry for him as he cowered in the corner, whimpering, with his hands raised to protect his head, or perhaps to hide his face for shame.
Anita, sleeping in the east wing, heard the ruckus first and appeared at the door with a lamp. She did not speak, but just stared in astonishment as she walked in, her eyes moving from Felix to Otto to me. Otto pulled a pistol from his waistband and handed it to her. “Watch him,” he said. “If he moves, shoot the bastard.”
She took the gun warily and stood pointing it at Felix while Otto came to me. I pitched myself shamelessly into his arms. Tears were streaming down my cheeks.
“I thought—Otto, forgive me, I thought—”
“I know, darling. It’s all right. It’s over now.” His hands were gentle, and his soothing manner calmed me.
He cradled me gently against his heart, crooning tender words of endearment until I had stopped sobbing. I wished I could remain safe in his arms forever. The fear dispersed in a moment, but the sweeter relief was to lay down the burden of su
spicion and open myself to the joy of love.
Horatio was the next to arrive. He stepped promptly in and removed the pistol from Anita’s fingers. “Hair-trigger,” he said. I knew now why the second pistol had been missing from the case. He had given it to Otto.
Anita came to me to see if I was all right. “You watch her, Anita,” Otto said, meaning to watch me. “Horatio and I must take Felix out of here.”
“We should tell Gregory,” she said.
“Let him sleep. Turning his brother over to the law is no fit job for a man to have to perform.”
I think he overestimated Gregory’s sensitivity to his brother’s plight, but it was a kind thought. The Farr brothers led Felix away. At the door he stopped and turned to me. “I am sorry, Jessica.” he said in a dull monotone. “But it was necessary. Necessitas non habet legem."
I could find no words to reply. He left with his head hanging low.
“How very like Felix!” Anita said angrily. “Spouting Latin at a time like this.” She sat on the edge of my bed and demanded to hear what had happened.
I wanted to talk about it, to exorcize the demons of that ordeal in the dark. We both bundled up in blankets against the cold draught from the shattered window. She was all curiosity and sympathy, and when we were talked out, she suggested we go downstairs to wait for Otto and Horatio. She helped me into my woollen housecoat, which was more concealing than a gown. It was not an occasion to insist on the formalities of proper dress.
Juteclaw had been awakened, and was also wearing his dressing-gown. On his head sat a handkerchief knotted at the four corners to form a nightcap. Wisps of white hair stuck out in front and back. He looked at me as if I were an apparition from another world.
“Oh, miss!” he exclaimed when he saw me. “It’s a miracle, that’s what it is. Sit you straight down by the fire and I’ll fetch a nice cup o’ tea.”
“Thank you, Juteclaw,” “Miss” replied gratefully.
He stoked up the fire in the grate while waiting for the water to boil. Anita and I sat huddled beside the blazing grate, for the house was cold.
“I shall take Gregory away until the talk dies down,” she said. “Ireland, perhaps.”
I hardly listened. My mind had more important matters to consider. I had yet to learn why Felix had turned to murder, but I could not believe love of gold was the cause. He had performed unforgivable acts. He had murdered two ladies and had tried to kill me, and it was hard to admit that my major sensation at that moment was untrammelled euphoria. I was alive. There was a parting in the dark clouds that had hung over Downsview. One day the clouds would pass and be forgotten. And in the meanwhile, I was alive, I was safe. Otto was free of suspicion, and best of all, I thought he truly did love me.
Chapter Twenty-six
An effulgent sunrise crimsoned the purple sky, heralding a new day, when the Farrs returned, sober but triumphant.
“You must tell us all about it, every word!” Anita demanded of them.
“A glass of wine to wet my whistle first,” Horatio said. The tea had grown cold long since and I had sent Juteclaw back to bed.
Anita poured us all a glass of wine, and Otto said, “I can almost pity the poor devil.” He sat beside me and grasped my hand in a tight grip, as if he were afraid to let me go. “Almost,” he added, peering at my throat, which was bruised from the attack.
“Why did he do it, Otto?” I asked. “Surely not for the money.”
“Not really for the money, but to save his reputation. It seems large parts of his magnum opus were lifted verbatim from Weldon’s father’s unpublished translation of Plutarch’s Lives. Doctor Weldon lent it to Felix just before his death. Felix assumed John would demand it back, but when time passed and he didn’t hear from him, Felix hatched the plan of passing the work off as his own, and began talking up his translation. John is no scholar, but he did at least know what his father had been working on. When Felix’s work made such a stir everywhere, John began rooting around his papa’s study and found the rough draft. He knew what Felix had done, and threatened to expose him if Felix did not pay him off. Felix did not have as much money as you might think. A work of that sort sells well over the years, but the money does not come gushing in all at once.”
“You noticed Felix’s scholastic lapses,” I said.
“I first suspected when I told him he should be ashamed of himself for writing so well. It was a quotation from Plutarch. If Felix had slaved over the translation, he would have recognized it. I tested him on a few other points, as you may recall, and caught him up on a few things.”
I said, “Felix said he was lending John a copy of his Cicero translation, but in fact I saw the book in the library after Weldon left. I wondered about that.”
“John Weldon has no more interest in Cicero than he has in metaphysics,” Otto declared. “Felix invented the excuse of lending him a book to keep me from quizzing Weldon. He had to have some excuse for Weldon’s visits, so he pretended they were discussing the classics. Of course Weldon was putting the screws to him to raise the money. Felix says it was Weldon’s idea that he kill Hettie. Greg had given him the notion the fortune was to be shared amongst us. Weldon was ready to settle for ten thousand—but he was not willing to wait a year. When he learned the terms of the will, he began urging Felix to either marry you or murder you, Jess.”
“He did propose, but in a very half-hearted way.”
Anita listened closely and said, “I wonder if Weldon had not assaulted Felix. I never believed that story about walking into a door.”
“Yes, Felix says Weldon did it.” Otto nodded. “And warned him that was just a sample of what was to come if he did not produce the money. It was also Weldon who butchered Duke, to show Felix what he was capable of in the way of ferocity.”
“He was there when Felix murdered Mrs. Manner?” I asked.
“Yes. Felix learned Mrs. Manner had seen him going up to the cheese-room, so he felt he had to be rid of her as well. Felix says Weldon haunted the park at that time, to see that Felix did not try to escape to London. Not much danger of that, when Weldon had proof that the Plutarch translation was plagiarized. It was Weldon who had sold Duke to Hettie, so when he whistled, Duke went to him, leaving Mrs. Manner undefended. Felix handled her; Weldon butchered the dog.”
I gave an involuntary shudder at the image his words conjured up.
Otto continued, “It was Felix’s idea to bury Duke. Pretending to look for the body gave him an excuse to go to the park. What he was really doing, of course, was arguing with Weldon, trying to make some arrangement to delay payment.”
"There are queer twists in the lad,” Horatio said, shaking his head. "Too much bookwork will do it, I fancy.”
“It was insufficient bookwork that caused Felix’s problem,” Otto said. “He knew himself to be only a second-rate scholar. Anyone who had read his Cicero must wonder at the sudden improvement in his work. One critic used the words ‘almost unbelievable.’ I felt the same way myself.”
“All a hum, about Felix giving a lecture at Rideau Hall,” Horatio said. “That was the next step in his plan to kill you, Jess. Who is speaking is that old bore of a Coleridge. Otto asked me to pick up the journals and see if it was advertised. That is how I came to be on hand to drive you home, you see. Killing two birds with one stone. Otto knew the rig would break down, after he had Bonham saw the axle.”
“You had your valet saw the axle?” I asked Otto. He nodded. “How did you know ...”
“A little eavesdropping gave me the clue, and a little gossip with Mary confirmed that you were planning a flit. Don’t be hard on her, Jess. I knew you were putting too much trust in Felix, and gave Mary a hint to keep an eye on you. If she had not told me ...”
“You might have warned Jess about Felix,” Anita chided.
“I tried to, but she was strangely immune to my hints,” Otto said, fixing me with a stare that still held some anger.
“And to think, Jess, you actually set
out in a carriage alone with him to go to London.” Anita said. “He had no intention of taking you to that professor friend he spoke of.”
"The plan was to murder her en route and claim a highwayman attacked them,” Horatio said. “We got the whole story out of him. It would be dark before they reached London. That boiler of a Weldon was to do the deed, wearing a mask so the groom would not recognize him.”
Otto added, “I took a drive beyond Littlehorn this afternoon to inquire at the toll booths if Weldon had set out for London, and returned.”
My insides shrank to think how close I had been to disaster that day. “I knew you were fudging about that into terview with Skelling! And of course it was Felix who Horatio was hoping to spot in the park this afternoon with the telescope, when he claimed to have spotted a fox.”
“You called him a fox yourself,” Horatio reminded me.
“Otto had the right name for him. He was the dark horse,” I said, giving Otto’s hand a squeeze.
Otto continued. “My scavenging in the dustbin added a bit of confirmation as well. Felix had left a sheet of ciphering behind. He had been sorting out Hettie’s investments, and dividing them by four. That said pretty clearly that one of us was not to share in them. And we all know which of us was holding up the disbursement of the monies for a year.”
“Yet in spite of all your sleuthing and precautions, Felix still got at her,” Anita said. “He obviously sneaked back here instead of going to London, but how did he get into Jessica’s room without anyone seeing him?”
“By the upstairs window at the end of the west corridor,” Otto said. “Weldon followed Felix’s carriage towards London. He was riding, not driving, as his role was to be a highwayman. He spotted the carriage at the stable in Littlehorn and gave Felix some signal that they were to meet up farther along the road. That is when Weldon told him about the window that the footman left open at night. Weldon gave Jeanie Pughe, his servant, the night off. Naturally she notified the footman here, and naturally Almond made sure the window was left open for him to sneak in late at night. Unfortunately Felix got in before I closed the window.”