I threw a quick glance back up the corridor, then stepped onto the landing and pulled the spring-loaded door shut behind me. The stairwell was lit by a weak trickle of gray light filtering down from above, so I turned off my flashlight and began to climb, pausing from time to time to examine a series of framed movie posters that hung on the whitewashed walls. The posters didn’t celebrate Tessa Gibbs’s many cinematic triumphs, but classic British films from the forties and fifties.
Had Lucasta DeClerke collected movie memorabilia? I wondered. If she had, she’d shown good judgment. Although the posters’ garish colors and lurid graphics were distinctly out of place in Ladythorne’s somber setting, my experience in the world of collectibles told me that the collection as a whole was worth a small fortune.
I’d spent a fair amount of time crawling through the attics of great houses while hunting for old books, and I thought I knew what to expect at Ladythorne—a warren of gloomy store rooms piled high with trunks, hat boxes, discarded furniture, and bric-a-brac, with a few latticed windows set high in the walls for ventilation.
I was in no way prepared, therefore, for the fathomless expanse of white that met my eyes when I reached the top of the stairs. A spotless, modern passageway stretched away to my left and right, far beyond the furthest reaches of my flashlight’s searching beam. The corridor was about four feet wide and seemed to run the entire length of the abbey, from the cloisters to the bell tower.
The passageway’s walls were white, the dropped ceiling was white, and short-napped white carpeting covered the floor from wall to wall. The domed skylights set into the ceiling at regular intervals were framed in white and inset with frosted glass. The only break in the mind-numbing whiteness came from a matched set of aggressively simple silver door handles that protruded from the inner wall, suggesting doors that were otherwise invisible. The decor was sleek, anonymous, and revoltingly antiseptic—a minimalist nightmare—and I strongly doubted that Lucasta DeClerke had had anything to do with it.
The silence in the passageway was absolute—not the mere absence of sound, but its negation, as if the walls had been designed to deaden any noise that might penetrate the skylights. Unnerved by the opaque stillness, I turned to my left, opened the first door I came to, and stepped cautiously inside. The thin gray light flooded in behind me.
It took me a moment to get my bearings, but when I did, my eyes widened in disbelief. I was standing in what ap peared to be a screening room. Thirty well-padded, leather-covered theater seats rose in ranks from a blank screen at the front of the room, and an oblong window in the rear wall revealed a row of movie projectors. Everything looked brand-new and very expensive.
“Tessa,” I said aloud, and felt even more admiration for the actress than I’d felt before.
Tessa Gibbs had come up with a remarkably elegant solution to the eternal problem of how to have one’s cake and eat it, too. She’d preserved Ladythorne as a period gem while at the same time claiming the least visible part of it as her own. The screening room was more than a rich woman’s indulgence. Although it would undoubtedly provide pleasure for her guests, it would also allow Tessa to do the kind of homework required by her profession. The heavy soundproofing was a thoughtful touch—visitors who preferred quieter pastimes wouldn’t be disturbed by the entertainment taking place on the top floor.
A smaller chamber adjacent to the screening room reminded me of Tessa’s obsession with feeding her guests. It had been charmingly decorated to resemble a silver-leafed art deco theater foyer, complete with a vintage popcorn machine, a soda fountain, a fancy espresso-maker, and a glass-enclosed candy counter. Pork scratchings, I assumed, would be available only at very private screenings.
As I crept along the white corridor, opening doors, I began to wonder if Tessa Gibbs was planning to swap her star-ring roles for a stint behind the camera. How else to explain the editing room and the sound studio she’d installed? They were tools I associated with the director’s trade, and I had no trouble envisioning a hard-driving film producer pounding his—or her—fists on the teak tables in the various conference rooms.
Whether in front of the lens or behind it, Tessa evidently had no intention of losing her lovely figure. The fitness room at the far end of the corridor could have been plucked from an exclusive health club, and the adjoining spa featured a sauna, a jacuzzi, and a pair of massage tables. I discovered a small dance studio, as well, with a sprung floor, a barre, and mirror-lined walls.
It wasn’t until I reached the cloister end of the white passageway that I finally found something resembling a store room, but it was as clean and well-organized as a hospital warehouse. Its miscellany of items had been tagged and placed in strict numerical order on adjustable floor-to-ceiling metal shelves. I whipped out my flashlight and moved up and down the aisles, counting under my breath, but nothing appeared to be missing.
There wasn’t a trace of dust on the white-tiled floor, either. If Wendy Walker had spent part of the previous evening prowling the store room, I couldn’t prove it, nor could I prove that she’d taken anything. Forced to admit defeat, I plodded disconsolately past a row of dented lampshades, turned the corner into the central aisle, and let out a shriek that must have strained the soundproofing.
“Good God . . .” I clutched at my chest as the pale face hovering in the shadows came into sharper focus. “Don’t ever do that to me again. I thought you were Lucasta’s ghost. I could have had a heart attack.”
“Sorry,” Jamie said, walking toward me. “I did call out in the doorway, but my voice didn’t seem to carry.”
“The walls absorb sound,” I said, leaning limply against a metal shelf. “What are you doing here, anyway? You’re supposed to be taking a nap.”
“It’s six o’clock, Lori,” he said mildly. “I slept for two hours. I knocked on your door when I woke up and when you didn’t answer, I looked in. You weren’t in your room, so I went looking for you. I thought I might find you up here. The door in the wall was open.”
“I closed it,” I said.
“You must not have pulled hard enough,” said Jamie. “It’s a tricky latch. Catchpole had to put his shoulder to it last night when he took Wendy and me to our rooms.” He cocked his head to one side. “Did he tell you about the servants’ stairs?”
I nodded.
“And you decided to go exploring.” Jamie grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. “I can’t say that I blame you. How often does one get the chance to wander freely through a place like Ladythorne? This floor’s full of surprises, isn’t it? I think I saw a dance studio back there, and I wouldn’t mind having a go at the sauna. . . .”
While Jamie rattled on, I hung my head in shame. His friendly chatter and generous assumptions made me feel very small indeed. If I’d caught Wendy Walker lurking in the store room, my first impulse wouldn’t have been to congratulate her on her spirit of exploration.
“To tell you the truth, Jamie,” I said, prodded by my guilty conscience, “I didn’t come up here just to take a look around.”
“No?” He waited patiently for me to go on.
“Can we go to the library?” I said, unable to meet his innocent gaze. “I don’t feel comfortable up here. There aren’t any books.”
Jamie lit a fire in the library’s stone hearth and sat in the leather armchair he’d occupied the night before. I sat opposite him, twisting my hands in my lap. He hadn’t asked a single question on the way down from the attics. His forbearance made my guilty conscience cringe.
“The thing is, Jamie,” I began haltingly, “Catchpole told me that he saw a light moving in the attics last night. I automatically assumed that Wendy had gone up there to”—I cleared my throat—“steal something.”
“Pardon?” said Jamie. “I didn’t hear the last bit.”
“I thought she’d gone up there to steal something,” I repeated, raising my voice. “I wanted to prove to you that I was right about her, so I went looking for evidence. I didn’t find any.”
>
Jamie pursed his lips and turned his gaze to the fire. “Catchpole said he saw a light moving in the abbey, did he? How strange . . .”
“What’s strange about it?” I asked.
“I have no wish to impugn Catchpole’s integrity, but I’m not entirely convinced that he was telling you the truth.” Jamie rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and tented his fingers. “The snow was falling so fast and hard yesterday that I couldn’t see the abbey clearly until he’d shoved me into the courtyard—and the sun was still up, then. I don’t believe he could have seen the abbey from his cottage through the snow, after dark.” He tapped the tips of his index fingers together. “There’s the pine grove to consider, as well. His cottage is surrounded by a heavy growth of pines, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“The interlacing branches would block his view of the abbey even if the snow didn’t,” Jamie said. “I don’t know how he could have seen a light moving in the attics.”
“Why would he lie to me?” I asked.
“Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him,” Jamie suggested. “Or maybe it was his mind. We’re talking about a man who spent fifty years working for a woman who was probably insane. He believes in ghosts and he spends a lot of time alone. He may believe what he told you, Lori, but it may not have been the truth as you and I know it.”
I recalled the nostalgic photograph gracing Catchpole’s mantel shelf, the injured owl perched behind his rocking chair, and the orphaned bluetits who’d taken up residence in his kitchen. He was an old man living with one foot in the past and animals as his closest companions. Perhaps he saw lights in the attics every night, whether they were there or not.
“Do you think he’s nuts?” I said.
“Possibly.” Jamie shrugged. “On the other hand, he may have deliberately misled you in order to stir things up for his own amusement. He certainly found a receptive audience.”
I covered my face with my hands. “I know. I feel like such a jerk. I’ve been to the cottage. I’ve seen the pines with my own eyes. I should have realized that they’d block his view, but I was so eager to punish Wendy for being mean to me that I didn’t stop to think. I just went off half-cocked, as usual.” I groaned. “I have a horrible feeling that I should apologize to Wendy, but frankly, I’d rather eat ground glass.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” Jamie soothed. “Least said, soonest mended.” He stood. “Hungry? I’m not as skilled in the kitchen as Wendy, but I can be trusted to heat up a can of soup.”
“Should we invite her to join us?” I asked.
“I already did,” said Jamie, “and she refused. She’s curled up in bed with a paperback and an enormous bag of trail mix. I don’t think we’ll see her again until morning.”
“Good. I may be able to look her in the eye by then.” I got to my feet. “You’re a much nicer person than I am, Jamie. I’ve been acting like a petty-minded little punk. Thanks for not rubbing my nose in my stupidity.”
“You’re welcome.” Jamie sidled closer to me. “You can show your gratitude to me in a more concrete way after dinner, if you like.”
I opened and closed my mouth a few times before managing a much too casual “What did you have in mind?”
“A guided tour of the library,” he replied. “I’ve been dying to plumb the depths of that repository of arcane knowledge you call a brain.”
“You’re on,” I said, almost relieved that his interest in me was purely intellectual.
I stuck out my hand to shake his in a scholarly fashion, but when he raised it to his lips, I felt a flutter that was neither pure nor intellectual. As we went to our respective rooms to fetch our oil lamps, I told myself not to worry. If my natural impulses started to get out of control, I could always put in an emergency call to Bill.
We had a lovely evening. After hunting down the lamp room and refilling our oil lamps, we supped on bowls of coconut ginger soup scrounged from the larder and a bottle of chardonnay Jamie liberated from the wine cellar. The lamps’ golden glow made the simple meal seem like a feast, and Jamie’s delightful conversation distracted me from the depressing sight of snow falling with renewed vigor outside the Gothic windows above the sink.
We returned to the library in high spirits. Jamie had already done a fair amount of browsing and was filled with questions about the books he’d found. I showed him examples of tree-calf, marbled-calf, and mottled-calf bindings, and dazzled him with my knowledge of obscure Victorian writers. When he pointed to a marble bust sitting atop the map case, I promptly identified it as Tennyson.
“He’s easy,” I said, laying a hand on the poet laureate’s noble brow. “Everyone knows what old Alfred looks like.”
“Old Alfred,” Jamie repeated, shaking his head. “You make it sound as if you play croquet with him every Tuesday.”
I laughed. “Does Wendy know there’s a map case in here?”
“It wouldn’t matter if she did,” said Jamie. “The maps are out of date. They wouldn’t help her revise her hike.”
“You’ve looked through the map case, then,” I said, and when Jamie nodded, asked archly, “Are you sure you’ve been through all of it?”
“I looked in each drawer,” he said.
I winked at him, moved Lord Tennyson to the floor, and lifted the map case’s hinged lid.
“Voilà!” I said with a flourish. “Most people focus on the drawers and miss the top compartment.”
“I didn’t realize it was there.” Jamie came to look over my shoulder. “What’s in it?”
I rifled through the thick sheaf of oversized sheets that had been stored in the hidden compartment. “Architectural drawings, floor plans, layouts of the grounds and gardens. Oh, look at this, Jamie.” I slid a sketch of a rose bower from between the other sheets and held it up for him to see. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I hope Tessa restores the gardens once she finishes with the house.”
“After seeing what she’s done to the attics, I’m not sure I want her to,” Jamie commented. “I wouldn’t mind if she restored the original Victorian plantings, but I’m afraid she might install one of those hideous modern gardens filled with concrete troughs and indescribable hunks of rusting sheet metal.”
“Tessa wouldn’t do that.” I put the sketch back where I’d found it, closed the map case, and restored Tennyson to his perch. “She has too much respect for Ladythorne. That’s why she hid the modern bits upstairs.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Jamie. “I’ve never understood the appeal of concrete troughs.”
He left the map case and opened the door of yet another glass-enclosed bookcase, but I hurried after him and put a restraining hand on his arm.
“Sorry,” I said, “but the tour’s over for now. I have to get some sleep. I wasted my nap time on a wild goose chase and I’m beat.”
“All good things must come to an end, I suppose.” Jamie closed his hand over mine. His dark eyes gleamed like pools of burgundy as he looked down at me and his honeyed voice grew husky as he said, “I’ve enjoyed this, Lori. I’ve enjoyed every moment I’ve spent with you. Truly.”
“It’s been fun for me, too,” I said, a bit unsteadily. “It’s been a long time since anyone volunteered to listen to me natter on about books.”
“I could listen to you all night long,” he murmured.
“Wow. You must have had an amazing nap.” I took a trembling breath and gently slid my hand from his grasp. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I retrieved my oil lamp and ordered my weak knees to carry me to my bedroom, leaving Jamie to bank the fire and trail slowly in my wake, looking like a little boy who’d lost his puppy.
Thirteen
Istaggered into my room, closed the door, and stood stock-still, listening intently. When I heard Jamie’s door swing shut across the corridor, I pressed a hand to my heaving breast and congratulated myself on a narrow escape.
The steamy look Jamie had given me in the library seemed to suggest that
he was open to plumbing the depths of something other than my brain, but it wasn’t him I was worried about. It was me. I found Jamie unspeakably attractive, on every level, and the late hour only magnified his charms. If my bedroom hadn’t been so chilly, I would have contemplated a cold shower.
Instead, I busied myself with sweeping the mound of ashes from the hearth, building a fresh fire, and tidying the room. I put my jeans and outdoor gear in the wardrobe, moved my day pack from the slipper chair to the writing table, straightened the bedclothes, and drew the drapes.
When I ran out of busywork, I put Reginald and the oil lamp on the tea table and carried the blue journal with me to the plump armchair. After settling Reg in the crook of my arm, I placed the journal in my lap and opened it, hoping that a visit with Aunt Dimity would keep me from dwelling on those smoldering brown eyes.
“Dimity?” I said. A welcome sense of calm came over me as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink looped and curled across the page.
Good evening, Lori. Were you successful in your search for evidence?
I ducked my head in embarrassment and firmly pushed aside every farfetched suspicion I’d ever harbored about Wendy.
“I didn’t find anything,” I confessed, “because there wasn’t anything to find. Catchpole was lying to me when he—” I broke off as Dimity’s handwriting sprinted across the page.
Did I hear you correctly,Lori? Did you say Catchpole?
“Yes,” I said. “He’s the old caretaker. The one with the cottage? His family worked at Ladythorne for donkey’s years, but he’s the only one left now and I think he may be off his rocker. He held us all at gunpoint when we first got here, then he turned nice and helpful, then he lied to me about seeing the light in the . . .” I fell silent as Dimity’s handwriting resumed.
Interesting. Most interesting. The writing paused, as if Dimity were digesting my comments, then continued. Lucasta spoke to me of the Catchpole family. She told me that she missed them dreadfully and was longing for their return. It’s incredible, and at the same time deeply touching, to learn that one member of the family still resides at the abbey, regardless of his eccentricities.
Aunt Dimity: Snowbound Page 11