Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  “You have a vivid imagination,” he said.

  “Is it—imagination?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  “You think I killed him?”

  “You weren’t there when Lavinia came. You could have done it.”

  “And how was I to know he was going out like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I could have heard the commotion. I could have come in. I could have been standing in the hall, listening without being seen. Then I could have gone to the boathouse and waited.…” He paused, a curious smile playing on his lips.

  “Yes,” I said, staring at him defiantly.

  “But why?” he asked.

  “You had everything to gain,” I said, “Falconridge, the money. You must have known about the unusual policy, and you must have known you could get it from Helena easily enough. You never got along with my uncle. You argued constantly. You said he was ruining Falconridge. You said you could not stand by and see him do that.”

  “And so you think I killed him,” he said flatly.

  “Did you?”

  The question hung in the air. Norman Wade did not answer. He did not look at me. His eyes were reflective, and he seemed to be turning something over in his mind. That same curious smile was on his lips. He was so close that I could see the little black hairs curling on the nape of his neck. Outside the rain began to slacken until it was no more than a thin green mist through which I could see the distant field of golden brown grain beyond its grayed wooden fence. The chickens began to grow restless, fluffing their feathers and cackling. One hopped down from the rafter and scratched about in the hay.

  Norman Wade looked up at me. His face was grim.

  “You could be right,” he said, speaking slowly. “Yes, you could be right. You have thought it out very carefully. Of course there are a few major points you have overlooked, but you have built up a rather compact case against me. The motive, the means—they’re both there. If a murder was committed, it’s quite conceivable that I did it. You have been very astute, but if what you believe is true—you realize your own position, don’t you?”

  “I am not afraid,” I said. My voice quivered.

  “One does not confront a murderer with the facts of his crime in an isolated spot,” he said. “One keeps silent, waiting for the right opportunity to expose him. One does not expose himself to danger as you have done—repeatedly. You’re a fool, Lauren. I never quite realized just how much a fool until now.”

  I backed away a little. He noticed and smiled.

  “What do you intend to do?” I asked.

  The smile broadened. It was a harsh smile, frightening. “I am not going to strangle you,” he said. “There’s no need to look so alarmed. You are going to leave Falconridge. I am sending you to London. I know some people there who will look after you until I can make more permanent arrangements. A special coach will bring the money to Falconridge tomorrow. When it returns, you will be on it.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You won’t,” he said simply.

  “Helena.…”

  “I will deal with Helena. I should send her away with you. I may. She hates to travel, but, as you know, I can be very persuasive. Now I am going to take you back to Falconridge. You will go to your room, and you will remain there until it is time for you to come down for the evening meal. By that time I will have more definite instructions. Do you have any more questions?”

  “What do you hope to prove by all this?” I asked.

  “I don’t hope to prove anything,” he replied. “I just want to get you safely out of the way. You don’t realize how lucky you are.”

  I did not reply. Norman Wade took me back to Falconridge. I rode behind him on the horse, my arms around his waist. The field was muddy, and the horse’s hooves splattered in the puddles. Drops of water clung to the grain, and the sky was like a bolt of wet gray silk. Neither of us said a word. Norman Wade had shown his hand, and I knew that words were of no value now. Now was the time for action. I did not have any idea what I would do, but I knew that I did not intend to leave Falconridge, and I did not intend to let him get away with his treachery.

  XV

  HE LEFT ME at the door of my room. I was surprised that he did not lock it behind me. I could hear him going down the hall to his room. Outside the sky was gray, darkening, deep purple stains on the horizon. I sat down on the bed, my hands in my lap, staring out the window and trying to form some plan in my mind. I could not let him get away with what he had done. I must do something, but I did not know what it would be. He had every intention of sending me away tomorrow, and I knew I was not going. I could not leave him here with Helena.

  I could go to Helena. I could tell her all I knew and guessed. She would listen intently. She would smile. She would pat my hand and tell me I was imagining things. She would suggest I take some of her laudanum and get more sleep. Norman Wade was her nephew, and she admired him. She would not believe him capable of doing what I knew in my heart he had done. If I told her I thought he was using her in order to get his hands on the money she would receive tomorrow she would tell me that what Norman desired to do with it was her desire, too. No, I could not go to Helena for help. It was my place to protect her, not to involve her in this affair any more than she was already innocently involved.

  If only I had some proof, I thought. All the little things added up to one major crime, but it was all speculation on my part. I had not a shred of evidence on my side. My uncle had been killed when The Falcon capsized in the water. It had been an accident, pure and simple. Even Mr. Stephens had been satisfied on that score, and he had been representing a firm that had a great deal of money at stake. If only I had something definite to go on, something I could present to the authorities that would not be mere assumption on my part.

  I suddenly thought about Lucy. She had something to tell me. Whatever it was had seemed imperative to the child. She had been on the verge of telling me this morning, but the presence of Martha Victor had restrained her. She was going to tell me tonight. Whatever Lucy knew, whatever it was she wanted to tell me, had been powerful enough to give her a severe shock. Perhaps she knew about the murder. Perhaps she had proof of it. Naturally she would be hesitant about talking about it, particularly after she had been accused of lying so many times, but it must have been preying on her mind all this time until she could no longer keep it to herself.

  Tonight I would know, and perhaps Lucy’s revelation, combined with my own speculations, would be enough to convince the authorities that Norman Wade was a murderer.

  How would I let them know? I thought about that. Time was important. I had only a few hours. He would see to it that I was on the coach that would be returning to London tomorrow. I must slip out tonight. I would slip out of the house after everyone had gone to bed. Then I would take one of the horses and ride to the village. I would find the sheriff and bring him back to Falconridge with me. Norman Wade was not going to get away with his crime, not if I could help it.

  I wondered why he had not killed me as well. He had the opportunity twice, in the boathouse and in the barn. It would have been easy to do, and he could have arranged it to look like an accident as he had done before. Why had he spared me? Why was he sending me away to London where I might still talk and cause trouble for him? Was he afraid? Did he think he might not be so successful with his second murder? They said that once a man has killed he has no hesitation about killing again, yet Norman Wade was content merely to get me “out of the way.” I wondered about that.

  Did he think my loyalty to Helena would prevent me from causing a scandal that would be painful for her? Perhaps, but I thought there was another reason why he had spared my life, and I lay back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling and thinking about that reason. It was foolish, of course, and incredibly schoolgirlish, but I couldn’t help but remember the look in his eyes on occasion when he was looking at me, thinking I did not notice. He probably looked that way at all the
young women—Arabella, for example, and the country lasses—yet still there had been something in the dark blue depths that I had instinctively recognized.

  I sat up, frowning, not pleased with the emotions that had come over me so suddenly. I would not permit myself to think about that. I had to be cool. I had to be calm. I had to be strong if I were going to defeat Norman Wade. I could not think about the look in his eyes, and I could not dwell on that first day in the clearing when he had taken me for a peasant lass and had kissed me so casually and yet so passionately there among the poppies. I must forget all that. I must remember that he was a murderer and not think about the way he looked with his clothes all wet and his glossy black hair plastered in damp waves about his handsomely shaped head.

  The sky was almost all purple now, misty, with dark red plumes of light on the horizon. From my window I could see the trees, all black silhouettes. Night was almost here. The light was quickly vanishing. I would have to go down to dinner. I would have to face Norman Wade again and it was going to be a task that would demand all my strength. I must look my best, and I must be calm and gracious and act as though nothing were wrong. He must not have the least suspicion of what I was planning to do. I must be prepared to chatter with Helena and tell her about my day. He would be watching me carefully. I must not make any little slip.

  I glanced at the clock and wondered why Lucy hadn’t come up. She usually came about this time to help me dress and to arrange my hair. I had repeatedly insisted that it was not necessary, but she loved to do it. It made her feel like a proper lady’s maid, she claimed. Perhaps she would be here in a few minutes, I thought, sitting down in front of the mirror to brush my hair.

  My face looked drawn. There were tiny hollows under each cheek bone, and soft brown shadows eteched over my eyelids. I could not look haggard. Helena would comment on it. I took out the pot of rouge and smoothed a little over each cheek, rubbing it in to make the color seem natural. I brushed my hair until the glossy auburn waves shone with rich copper highlights, pulling it away from my face and tying it with a ribbon in back, letting the heavy waves cascade down my shoulders. I laid out my dress, still wondering about Lucy, a little concerned now.

  The dress was one of the finest Lavinia had made, white and lilac striped satin with tiny purple velvet bows, worn over several underskirts of stiff lilac crinoline that rustled when I walked. I put it on and admired the effect in the mirror. I put on the ruby pendant that Clarissa had given me so long ago. The drop of red added just the right amount of color.

  The clock ticked on. The noise seemed terribly loud. Lucy still had not come. What was keeping her? She was always here by this time. Had Martha Victor prevented her from coming? She had heard Lucy’s hurried words to me when we were standing by the stairs this morning, and she knew Lucy intended to tell me something very important tonight. It would be like her to invent some extra task to keep the child too busy to come up to my room before dinner. Anyway, I would see her tonight before I went to bed, and she would tell me her secret then.

  I suddenly remembered something that made my pulses leap. My knees felt weak, and I had to cling to the bed poster to support myself. Martha Victor was not the only one who knew that Lucy was going to tell me something vitally important. Norman Wade knew, too. I had told him about it in the barn. I had chatted on, blithely telling him about the incident in the kitchen and in the hall afterwards, not once thinking about the child and the possible danger to her. So that was why Lucy hadn’t come! Norman Wade had stopped her. He had probably locked her in her room, forbidding her to speak to me before I left tomorrow.

  There were just a few minutes before it would be time for me to make my appearance in the dining room. I hurried on downstairs, being very quiet as I came around the curve of the staircase that led to the main hallway. Instead of turning towards the dining room, I went the other way through the narrow halls that led to the region of the house where the servants stayed. I found Lucy’s little room tucked away under the old staircase and opened the door.

  I saw the narrow little cot, the tight walls covered with fading yellow wall paper, the tiny window through which so little light came. Lucy was not there. One of her dresses was laid neatly over a wooden chair, and a hair ribbon I had given her had dropped beside the cot. A bunch of wild-flowers was withering in a chipped blue vase, and on the wall a picture of an old castle hung crookedly. It was a pathetic room, so tiny and so stuffy, smelling as it did of grease and dust. I could imagine the child lying away on the lumpy cot, her mind bothered with the knowledge of a terrible crime.

  Cook was in the middle of dinner preparations, her face flushed, her temper flaring when I hurried into the kitchen to inquire about Lucy. Two of the maids scurried out, dishing up food, jumping when she gave her orders. A frown of anger crossed her face when I asked if she had seen Lucy. “That lazy child,” she said. “I sent her out to the woodshed to fetch some wood over an hour ago, ’n she ain’t come back yet. Probably daydreamin’ somewhere, and my stove about to burn itself out for lack of fuel.…” I did not remain to hear the rest of her complaint. The woodshed was on the other side of the carriage house, and I hurried through the hallways towards the courtyard.

  Something drove me; something hurried me on. I ran down the hall, my heels clattering loudly. I did not care if any one heard me now. My only concern was Lucy. She had been gone an hour, a full hour, and it should have taken her five minutes, ten at the most, to fetch the wood. I was out of breath as I neared the foyer that led out to the courtyard. I had to stop. I leaned against the wall. My breath came in short gasps. My wrists felt weak, limp.

  Then I heard the pistol shot. It was a loud explosion of noise that made my heart leap. Leaning against the wall, I closed my eyes. It was a while before I could summon enough strength to go on down the hall and out to the courtyard. The last rays of light were fading on the horizon, and the courtyard was dim, already shrouded in the thin evening mists. I saw the frail little body huddled by the shrubberies, and I saw the dark red stains. I saw Hugo, his body still twitching in its final agony. I saw the broken leash dangling from the post where it had been fastened. I saw Norman Wade standing over the dog, the pistol in his hand still smoking. He looked up at me with solemn eyes.

  “The dog attacked her. She’s dead. I had to shoot him. Now do you see why you must leave this place as soon as possible?”

  Whatever he had given me was beginning to wear off. My head felt heavy, and it seemed almost impossible to lift my eyelids. The room was flooded with misty silver moonlight, and I could hear the sound of the sea. At first, I thought it was someone beside me, breathing deeply, but as the drug began to wear off I realized it was the waves, washing over the sand and making the noise that was a constant background at Falconridge. I sat up in bed, pressing my fingertips against my temples. My head began to clear, and as that blissful state of semi-consciousness wore off, the horror of reality began to take its place.

  He had carried me up here to my room. He had laid me on the bed and left for a few minutes to fetch some medicine. I had been too weak to protest, and I drank the stuff willingly enough. He had stood over me as the fog began to envelope my brain, and I remembered him saying that they had come and taken Lucy away to the church. Helena had gone to her room and sought refuge in her laudanum. It would not wear off. She would still be asleep.

  Norman Wade had talked as I grew drowsier and drowsier. He told me he had been in the carriage house, looking for some papers, and he had heard her screams. She had evidently been taunting the dog, and he had broken his leash and gone for her. It had been over very quickly. He had pulled the dog away and taken out the pistol. Once, as he talked, I tried to sit up, but his hands on my shoulders pushed me back down on the pillows. I wanted to tell him that Lucy was terrified of the animal and wouldn’t have gone near it. She would never have taunted it. Norman Wade talked, and soon the blessed sedative did its work, and I passed into the soothing arms of oblivion. How long ago had that b
een, one hour? Two? Five? I was awake now, fully dressed, my head aching miserably from the medicine.

  I kept remembering something my uncle had said: “Hugo won’t kill unless he’s told to do so.” Those words kept repeating themselves in my head. He wouldn’t kill unless he was told to do so, and he had been told to kill tonight. The man was a fiend. He was a monster. I had to stop him. I had to leave Falconridge now, no matter how drowsy I felt, no matter how weary and heartsick I was. I had to get help tonight. Tomorrow would be too late.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, tears pouring down my cheeks as I thought about the pathetic child who had so desperately wanted attention and love, who had such a vivid imagination and so glib a tongue that when she wanted to tell the truth no one would listen to her. I thought of that long, pale blonde hair and that thin little face with the enormous blue eyes. She would not go unavenged. I would see to that.

  The door to my room was locked. He had not trusted me a second time. It was a strong oak door, as were all those in the house. There was no way I could get it open without a key. The key, I thought. I kneeled down and peered through the keyhole. I could see no light. It was dark in the hall, and there would be no light anyway, but there was a chance he had left it in the lock. I went to the desk and took out a piece of stationery. I slid it under the door and took a hairpin from my hair. I held my breath as I edged the hairpin into the keyhole, going very slowly so that the key would edge out and not fall away from the paper. I could not feel anything, and for a moment I felt it was all hopeless. Then I felt a budge and there was a little clink as the key fell. I closed my eyes, whispering a silent prayer that it had fallen on the paper. I pulled the paper back into the room, slowly, slowly, and almost gave a little cry of joy as I saw the brass key riding under the edge of the door.