by V. J. Banis
“Mrs. Garrison won’t know if Edwina’s there,” Mr. Johnston said sadly.
“I thought you said your wife went to Heather House?”
“Not on a social call. She intended stealing into the house without anyone seeing her.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand, sir.”
Again Mr. Johnston sighed. He turned his back on David and stared out the window at the threatening night.
“If there is something in the house that she wants, I’m sure Mrs. Garrison has no objections to her removing whatever it is,” David said calmly, trying to ease Mr. Johnston’s anguish.
“It isn’t all that simple. I’m sorry, David, but I can’t tell you what she went after. I ask only that you trust me and that you go to Heather House and bring Edwina home.”
“Of course I’ll go,” David said, glancing toward the stairway, thinking about Rebecca.
David put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Nothing has happened to Mrs. Johnston. Try not to worry. I’ll drive out to the house right away.”
As he spoke he turned around, hearing Rebecca’s footsteps on the stairs. He patted Mr. Johnston’s shoulder again and started toward the hallway. Rebecca tried to brush past him.
When David told Rebecca he was going to Heather House, she was sure to suspect that it wasn’t because he was interested in finding Edwina Johnston, but Maggie Garrison.
Let her think what she wishes, he told himself. There was something slightly unnerving about Rebecca. She was still the vivacious, tempting woman he’d met, but there was something else, something almost frightening about the things she said, the things she did, the way she acted.
“I’m leaving,” she said curtly and swept out the door, slamming it behind her. David just stared after her. He started to follow.
“David,” Mr. Johnston called.
David hesitated with his hand still on the doorknob, then he turned back. Let her go, he thought. She certainly wasn’t the only desirable female in the world. He thought suddenly about Maggie.
“If you find Edwina and she is all right, please don’t mention that I sent you after her. She’d be upset with me. Just pretend you came to see Mrs. Garrison. If Edwina is not there, check the grove of trees at the back of the house. That’s where Edwina parks the car. She doesn’t want Mrs. Garrison knowing she’s slipping into the house. If her car is there, then find some excuse to go down into the cellar.”
“The cellar?” David asked with surprise. “But why?”
Mr. Johnston waved a nervous hand and looked away. “Just trust me, David. I can’t explain. What Edwina feels she must have is in the cellar. Just do as I ask. I wish I didn’t have to ask this of you, but as you can see there is no one else and it is, of course, impossible for me to go myself. And after what happened to Sophie, I’m afraid.”
David frowned. “What does Sophie’s death have to do with your wife?”
David heard Rebecca start up her Mercedes and drive off.
“Edwina saw who killed Sophie. I’m afraid he might try to kill her, too.”
“He?”
“A man. She said he was a stranger to her, but she’d recognize him again if she saw him. She wasn’t sure whether or not the man saw her hiding in the cellar doorway when it happened.” He glanced up at David. “Now, you see why I’m so afraid for her? I’m certain something has happened.”
“But why didn’t she go to the police?”
“Because.... No, I can’t tell you that. The police would only ask what Edwina was doing there in the first place. She could never tell them that and so she chose to remain silent. You see,” Mr. Johnston continued, “the stranger—the man who killed Sophie—is still in Heather House. Edwina said he did not leave after hitting poor Sophie. He disappeared into the servant’s wing. She is sure he is still there.”
“Still at Heather House?” David gasped.
Mr. Johnston nodded his head. “Edwina said she got the impression that he’d been there for quite awhile. She’d overheard snatches of a conversation between the man and Sophie just before the man hit her.”
“Good God!” David exclaimed. His eyes widened. “Maggie,” he said suddenly.
He turned and rushed out of the house.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A hand reached out and grabbed Maggie’s arm, pulling her around. She screamed, but when she saw him standing there in the shadows, her scream turned into a gasp of joy.
“Rod,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Rod.” She threw herself at him. He tensed against her embrace. She felt his breath softly on her hair.
“Oh, Rod! I knew you weren’t dead. I knew it!” she exclaimed as she tightened her arms around him and felt the tears begin to stream from her eyes.
The man stood straight and rigid, like a cold, marble pillar. “Hello, Maggie,” he said flatly.
Maggie stiffened. The voice wasn’t the voice she’d wanted so desperately to hear; it wasn’t Rod’s voice. She pushed herself back and through her happy tears she stared up into the shadowy face. Her eyes widened in amazement and shock.
“George!” she gasped. She let go of him and anxiously looked around, praying that Rod would be standing near Rebecca’s supposedly dead husband.
“Aren’t you surprised to see me, Maggie?” His voice was like ice cubes.
“Where’s Rod?” Maggie demanded firmly. She felt suddenly frightened...afraid to hear his answer.
“Where do you think? At the bottom of the lake, of course.”
Maggie’s hands flew to her mouth. She bit into her knuckles to keep back her scream. “No,” she groaned. “No.”
“Ah, but yes, Maggie dear. Your dim-witted husband has gone to his reward, as they say.”
“I don’t believe you. He’s alive. I know he’s alive.” Again she looked around with frantic, anxious eyes.
“He’s dead, Maggie. Hasn’t my dear wife convinced you of that yet?”
“No, he’s not dead,” Maggie insisted.
George nodded gravely. “He is most definitely dead, Maggie. Take my word for it. After all, I should know; I was there, wasn’t I?”
Maggie stared hard into his face. “I don’t believe you; I won’t believe you.”
George shrugged. “So don’t believe me. It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not. You are so naive, Maggie,” he said, reaching out to put his hands on her shoulders. The look on his face made her cringe from him. “Rebecca and I plotted the whole thing right under your noses and you never suspected a thing.”
“You and Rebecca. I thought....”
“You thought it was Rebecca and that stupid husband of yours,” he said, finishing her sentence for her. “Oh, Maggie, surely you don’t think Rebecca was interested in that lout? She only played up to Rod to make you jealous. She thought by keeping you occupied with trying to hold on to your dear husband, you wouldn’t see what we were really after.”
Maggie took another step back, scowling at him.
“It was money, of course, that we wanted. That salary I made as an insurance salesman could never keep Rebecca and me content. No, my little wife and I have always had expensive tastes, as you know.”
“Rebecca hated you,” Maggie managed to say.
George threw back his head and laughed. “Hated me? Hell, I’m the only man in the world capable of making Rebecca happy. We both wanted the same thing—money—and the only way to get it was to talk you and Rod into that big insurance policy. If you remember, we took one out at the same time. Oh, we gave it a lot of thought. First Rod and I would die,” he said. The ugly grin was plastered on his mouth. “And then you, Maggie dear.”
Maggie groaned and took another step away from him. “No.”
“But of course you must die. Surely you know that. Rebecca got my insurance money and you got Rod’s. Well, we’re not satisfied with just half the pie. We want all of it. You made Rebecca your beneficiary without giving it a second thought. That was a lucky break. Rebecca thought if she insisted s
he be named your beneficiary you might start being suspicious. You were always naive, but never stupid, I must admit. We knew you’d guess it all sooner or later. Thankfully it was later...but too much later,” he said.
Maggie just stood there speechless. Yes, she’d suspected, of course, but she’d guessed the wrong characters in the play. She knew Rebecca was behind some hideous scheme but she was sure it had been with Rod and not with this husband whom she had continually said she despised.
What a fool she’d been. When the insurance company mentioned the troubles George had had with the law, she should have been smart enough to guess that it was Rebecca and George. Her mind was in a jumble. Rebecca and George had been so convincing about how much they hated each other.
As though reading her thoughts, George said, “Rebecca and I did a pretty good job convincing everybody that we hated each other. We had everybody fooled. We used to laugh about it when we were alone.”
Maggie, finding her voice at last, said, “You can’t get away with this, George. You and Rebecca will be found out.”
“How? Nobody questions the fact that I am legally dead. If you suddenly die in an accident—a fire, let’s say—who’s to know that there was dirty work behind it? Rebecca’s off with that local real estate character, I suppose.” As an afterthought he said, “She’ll tire of that jerk in a week, if not before. She knows where the good times are. I don’t mind her having an occasional fling. In the meantime, if she’s in the city and your house burns down with you inside, or you have an accident of some kind, who’s to suspect that Rebecca had a hand in it? Remember, Maggie, there isn’t supposed to be anybody in this house but you.” He glanced over toward the far wall where Mrs. Johnston’s body lay half buried under the bricks. “Who was that old lady?”
“Mrs. Johnston,” Maggie found herself saying. The name came out of its own accord. “You killed her, too.”
George laughed. “No, I didn’t kill her. I guess I was responsible, though. She was trying to push down that bricked-up door. I bumped into something and the noise made her spin around. When she saw me she screamed and fell against the bricks. What was she doing here, anyway?”
Maggie thought about the skeleton of Louis Lambert. Would her skeleton lie next to his one day? It seemed years ago now that Mrs. Johnston had said the house was evil.
Maggie had refused to listen, but now, standing here in front of a man who meant to take her life, she wished she had listened. Why had she been so blind? Even now, regardless of the evidence standing before her, she refused to accept the fact that Rod was dead and she was marked to follow him. Rod couldn’t be dead. He’d come back to her someday, just as George had come back to Rebecca. She must keep herself alive.
How could she flee from this menace in front of her?
Talk to him, she told herself. Talk. Bide for time. Take his mind off what he intends doing to you. Talk, Maggie. Say something. Tell him anything, but keep his mind occupied until you can seize the opportunity to run.
“There’s a skeleton behind that brick wall,” Maggie forced herself to say. She tried not to let her voice give away her intentions.
“A skeleton? Hey, I like that,” George laughed. “This old barn is just stacked high with corpses. A regular Bluebeard’s Castle.”
Maggie turned slightly and took a step in the direction of where Mrs. Johnston’s body lay. George followed closely. She stopped, standing beside a tall pile of crates and boxes. “The woman lying there was trying, I think, to retrieve this letter from the dead man’s skeleton.” She had the letter in her hand. Slowly she unfolded it and showed it to George.
Interested, he made the mistake of reaching for the letter. When he lowered his eyes to the writing Maggie yanked on the stack of boxes behind her and pulled them down on George’s head.
George groaned in pain as the heavy boxes and crates toppled over him and he fell under their weight. Maggie turned and ran as fast as she could toward the stairs. She dashed up, tripping over the top two steps and banging her arm hard onto the floor. Pain shot up through her shoulder.
With a groan she staggered into the kitchen and slammed the door shut. There was no key in the lock. Hurriedly she pulled a kitchen chair over to the door and lodged it underneath the knob, but the floor was highly waxed and polished and she knew the chair would not hold. She heard George’s footsteps coming fast up the cellar stairs. As she turned to run, the cellar door crashed open and George made a lunge for her.
Maggie screamed. She grabbed a kettle from the stove and flung it at his face. George ducked and the kettle went clanging across the floor. She snatched up a long, heavy poker that rested next to the old coal stove. She gripped it firmly and swung at George, driving him back from her.
George crouched before her, looking for an advantage.
“I killed one woman in this kitchen,” he sneered. “It seems I’m in a rut by killing another in the same place.” He made a grab for her.
Maggie swung the poker. It connected with the upper part of his arm. It didn’t seem to phase him, although it did cause him to step back out of range.
“You play rough, Maggie. Well, have your fun. It’s the last you’ll enjoy.” Again he made a lunge for her. This time she aimed the poker more carefully. She struck him on the side of the head. George yelped and staggered, and fell sideways onto the floor.
Maggie made a dash for the door. She was through it in a flash and racing as fast as she could for the telephone on the hall table. She was careful not to let go of the poker as she snatched up the receiver and frantically dialed for the operator. It seemed forever before she heard the woman’s voice.
“This is Maggie Garrison at Heather House,” Maggie said in a rush. “There’s a man here. He’s trying to kill me. Call the police.” She screamed and dropped the phone as George charged through the door, blood streaming down his cheek.
Maggie raised the poker and brought it down hard. It grazed his skull and thudded hard into his shoulder. George nearly fell again but he stayed on his feet and made still another grab for her. Maggie found herself backed into a corner under the staircase.
“Stay away from me, George,” she said as she waved the poker menacingly at him. “I don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to. It isn’t going to do any good to murder me now. The police know there is someone here trying to kill me. You won’t get away with this.”
To her surprise George only smiled at her. “I’m dead, Maggie. Remember? George Shepard, beloved husband of your dear sister, is dead...drowned....” He laughed. “No one will suspect Rebecca because she’s far away from here. I made sure of that. I told her to be sure she was with someone, someone who could testify that they were miles away from this mausoleum when you died. Let the police come. I’ll be well on my way before they get here.” He made a sudden grab for the poker but Maggie was too quick for him and swung again, knocking him back away from her.
He stood there for a moment, searching her face. Then he said in a crooning voice, “Your arms are getting tired aren’t they, Maggie? Can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel that tiredness in your muscles from holding up that heavy poker? It’s getting heavier and heavier, Maggie. You are not going to be able to hold onto it for much longer, are you? Already the muscles in your arms are beginning to tire under all that weight.” He made another quick grab for her but again she was too fast for him.
He was right, though. Her arms were beginning to grow numb, or at least she felt as though they were. The power of suggestion, she thought. She mustn’t listen to him.
“The poker must weigh at least a hundred pounds, Maggie,” he crooned. “It’s getting heavier and heavier.” He took a step closer, keeping his eyes glued to hers. “You’ll have to put it down, Maggie. You can’t hold it much longer. It’s too heavy.”
The poker seemed to be gaining weight by the second.
Yet she could not let go of it. It was her only chance at saving her life. She had to hold on. She had to fight him off until the po
lice arrived. To show she still had strength left in her arms she swung the poker again. It was suddenly heavier than ever and almost slipped from her grasp.
“I have no compunction about killing you as you killed poor Sophie,” Maggie said as she threatened him with the poker, refusing to look into his eyes.
“Stupid Sophie,” George said with a sneer as he continued to crouch and study her for an advantage. “She knew I was here in the house all along, of course. I got here long before you and Rebecca. Sophie and I were old pals by the time you two arrived. Sophie used to call me Mr. Lambert. Yes, we had good old gab sessions in that kitchen. She was just as dim-witted as that husband of yours, Maggie.
“But like Rod, Sophie finally started to see the way things really were. Little did you know that I was in the kitchen when you and Rebecca and the boyfriend were having yourselves a gay old time in the other part of the house. Sophie was going to tell you that there was a man living in the servants’ wing...a man she fed and looked after. Of course I couldn’t let her tell you that. I had no other choice but to shut her up.”
“Murderer,” was all she could find to say.
George laughed again. “Would you have called Rod a murderer if he were standing where I stand now? I think not, Maggie. You could overlook a little thing like murder in Rod, but not in me. Why, Maggie? Why am I so evil and Rod so forgivable? If he were in my place—if it had been he and Rebecca who cooked up this whole scheme—you’d still be willing to forgive and forget. Ah, love. ’Tis a powerful thing, as they say.”
Sudden guilt made Maggie cringe within herself. He was right, of course. Having suspected all along that it was Rod and Rebecca who arranged for George’s death, she still would have found it in her heart to absolve Rod from blame. Here she stood, fighting for her life, prepared to kill as George had killed, and still wishing Rod was standing before her, murderer or not. She was no better than George and Rebecca. She would willingly have closed her eyes to Rod’s mistakes, his terrible deeds, just to satisfy her own selfish desires for his love.