The Lady of Lyon House

by Jennifer Wilde

  I left the porch and walked around the house, trying each shutter. They all seemed to be secured from within, and I would have had to tear them off to get in. For that I would have needed tools. I had almost given up when I discovered loose shutters on a window in the back of the house. They were latched, but the latch was old and rusty. I pulled at the shutters with all my might. They flew open, tearing the latch off. It dangled there, where he would find it, and he would know that someone had broken in, but I did not care.

  The windows the shutters had protected were closed but not locked. I found a stick in the yard and wedged it between the sill and the lower part of the window frame. I edged the window up enough to get my hands under it. The frame was tight, the wood swollen with age, and it took me a long time to push the window open enough to allow me to climb in. I finally managed to do this, falling into the room on my hands and knees. I had a moment of sheer wicked triumph as I stood up and looked around the room. It was a bedroom, everything tidy and neat. I peered into the closet. His clothes hung there, and his shoes were arranged in neat rows on the floor. I went through each drawer of the bureau, examining all the clothes, looking under piles of handkerchiefs. I did not know exactly what I was looking for, but I knew that when I found it I would recognize it. I put everything back in place and left the bedroom.

  I walked cautiously down the hall to the front part of the house. I knew no one was around, yet I had an uneasy feeling. My nerves were on edge, and the strangeness of the house and the boldness of my invasion combined made me wary. My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. The floor creaked and groaned under my weight, and I felt that someone would jump out from behind every door I passed.

  The whole front part of the house was one enormous room, as littered and messy as the bedroom had been neat. A large table was cluttered with rags, papers, pots of paint, a palette crusted with blobs of dried color. Canvases leaned against the wall in tilted heaps, wads of paper filled the fireplace, books and magazines were stacked on every chair. The huge sofa drawn up before the hearth had broken springs. The nap of the carpet was shiny. A plate with scraps of food and an empty bottle of gin were on the floor beside the sofa. The odors of paint and turpentine and male body were overwhelming.

  The presence of Philip Ashley filled the room, even though he was not physically present. His shaving mug and lather brush sat on a desk, a chipped mirror propped up in front of them. A pair of his boots stood awkwardly in front of a chair. One of his shirts was draped across the back of another chair. It was as though he had just stepped out for a moment and would return at any instant. I stood in the doorway, almost afraid to enter a room so redolent of the man I suspected of murder.

  I moved over to the desk. Surely any important papers would be in one of the drawers. I pulled open the top drawer. It contained pencils and paper and stamps and various unimportant objects. The next drawer yielded nothing, nor the next, but when I tried to open the bottom drawer I discovered that it was locked. I did not hesitate. Again I took a hairpin from my hair and proceeded to spring the lock. I was beginning to feel very proficient at the task.

  The lock clicked. The drawer tilted open. I took out a dark green folder and spread its contents over the top of the desk. I studied them for a long time. At first I was disappointed, thinking this merely a collection of odds and ends, sentimental keepsakes. There were several newspaper clippings, a cheap photo gravure, a bill announcing the opening of an exhibit, a letter. Then I saw that the letter was from Scotland Yard, addressed to a Philip Mann.

  Dear Mann,

  I will again assure you that our men are doing everything possible to clear this matter up. Your suggestions and efforts are appreciated as sincere, but they have begun to be somewhat a nuisance. You will be a far greater help if you leave the matter to us. Any further interference will be looked upon gravely. Nay, if you turn up here again I shall take it upon myself to see that you are restrained. Is that clear enough?

  Yours,

  Inspector A. D. Clark

  I read the letter over again. It did not make sense. Who was Philip Mann? I studied the gravure. It was poorly printed on a piece of heavy cardboard, the colors running together. It was a woman’s face. The cheeks were maroon, the eyes brown, the complexion a yellow-brown due to the poor printing. The elaborately coiled and curled hair was black. I could tell very little about the features because of the terrible color tones. Who was she? Some woman Ashley kept in London? What was he doing with her picture?

  The bill announcing the exhibit was printed in copper ink on expensive cream colored paper. The letterhead read MANN GALLERIES, with an impressive London address beneath. It described a collection of art objects and uncut precious stones that would be on display during the dates listed below. As I studied it, something began to click in my mind. I remembered something, some overheard conversation. I could not recall exactly what it had been about.

  The newspaper clippings clarified that. They gave a complete coverage of the Mann case that had been the talk of London a few weeks ago. I remembered hearing Bert and the girls discussing it one morning at the breakfast table, and I had read an account of it myself one night in my dressing room. I studied the clippings carefully.

  Clinton Mann, owner of the Mann Galleries, had given the exhibit described in the announcement, and that night thieves had broken into the galleries and stolen the precious stones. Mr. Mann, who lived in an apartment over the galleries, had tried to stop the thieves and they had murdered him. He had been horribly, brutally beaten to death. Scotland Yard had few clues, but they were looking for a beautiful brunette who had been seen in Mann’s company in the week prior to the robbery. They believed that the woman was a member of the gang and had set up the robbery. The newspapers made no mention of Mann’s family.

  I put the clippings down and picked up a book lying on the desk. On the fly leaf, beautifully embossed, was the name Philip A. Mann. I was not surprised. I had already guessed that Philip Ashley was Clinton Mann’s son. Not content with what Scotland Yard was doing, he was conducting his own private investigation of the crime. I began to remember little things he had said and done. They all fit in place.

  I was puzzled. Why had he been following me? I certainly had nothing to do with any crime. The police said there was a woman involved, but she was a brunette. She was the woman in the photo gravure, of that I was certain. I had never seen the woman before, or had I? There must be some reason why Philip Mann was so interested in me. When I had accused him of watching me, he had said he was watching “over me,” as if I was in some danger that he knew about.

  Everyone seemed to have been watching over me: Mattie and Bill, Edward Lyon and Corinne, Philip Ashley Mann. Each had expressed concern for my safety in some way or other, each had given me warning. Don’t go to the village alone, don’t wander around in the woods at night, don’t talk to strangers. Mattie had sent me away from London because it wasn’t safe for me to stay there. Now Devonshire was no longer safe.

  It had something to do with the Mann case—I knew that now. Somehow or other I was involved. Had I accidentally seen something, something I could not recall? Was the mysterious brunette one of the girls at the music hall, and had I observed something that would be incriminating to her, something I had since forgotten? These questions revolved in my brain, tormenting me, and I put my hands to my temples, trying to stop the throbbing. My cloak slipped from my shoulders and fell to the floor in a dark blue heap.

  The newspaper clippings had given a particularly gory description of the murder. They described the fatal beating with relish, leaving nothing to the imagination. It had been called one of the most brutal slayings of the century. And now those killers were looking for me. That was the reason for all the secrecy, all the caution. The men who had murdered Clinton Mann intended to murder me. I did not know why, but it was a certainty that froze my blood.

  They had already murdered Agatha Crandall. They could not be far. Perhaps they were moving in at th
is very moment.

  I do not know how long I sat there, paralyzed with fear. The room had grown dim, heavy shadows filling the corners and blurring the edges of furniture and canvas. Only a few weak orange rays of fading sunlight seeped in through the tightly closed shutters. In a few moments, there would be total darkness. The house seemed to close in around me. It was dark and isolated. The wind was banging the shutters I had broken open; they slapped loudly against the house.

  The floor creaked in one of the back rooms.

  I flew to the front door, my heart pounding violently. The door was locked from the inside. I fumbled with the catch with awkward fingers. The floor creaked again and a soft, shuffling sound followed. I was not alone in Dower House. Someone was moving stealthily down the hall. The brass bolt flew back with a loud click as I flung the door open. I didn’t pause once; I ran across the lawn and hurled myself over the fence and raced down the road. I ran until I could run no longer.

  I stopped—feeling as though my lungs would burst.

  I looked back at Dower House, far away now. It looked peaceful. A blur of orange light washed over the walls, and long brown shadows crept across the yard. The door stood open, as I had left it, but no one came out. I shivered, standing there in the middle of the road. I had left my cloak, and the wind was cold on my bare arms. No one had pursued me. I had given in to a moment of hysteria, and my imagination had been over active.

  I stood there panting, trying to calm myself.

  I walked slowly down the road towards Lyon House. My sides ached from running. My head still throbbed, and there was a voice inside. It was a scratchy whisper, and it repeated the same words over and over. I shook my head, but the voice kept whispering. “Man,” it said, “Ashley. Go see Beau. Go see Beau.” I had not been able to make sense of Agatha’s drunken gibberish before, but now I understood it. She was telling me about Philip Mann, and what had sounded like “Go see Beau” in that broken whisper came clear now.

  There was something in the gazebo.

  I knew what I should do. I should go to Corinne and tell her what I had discovered, or I should wait until Edward came back from London and tell him. I was involved in something extremely dangerous, and it was sheer folly to act on impulse, but I could not wait any longer. I had been surrounded by clouds of mystery for so long that I did not feel I could possibly endure any more. I had to act now. I had to see for myself what Agatha’s cryptic message had meant.

  I skirted the gardens of Lyon House, moving quickly and silently among the thickening shadows. All light had faded from the sky now, and it was a dark blue, streaked with black. The air was hazy, and the tree limbs were like inky black fingers reaching out of the haze. I heard the river. I stepped to the edge of the clearing where the gazebo stood.

  The boards had been ripped off the front and I could see inside. Someone had been here recently. I stepped across the clearing and stood before the gazebo, staring inside. There were no floorboards; a mound of earth reared up inside. It was a grave.

  I did not hear the woman come up behind me. When I turned, she was only a few feet away. She was wearing the red satin dress adorned with jet beads. The black feather boa was wrapped about her arms. Her dark eyes stared into mine, and then they peered at the mound of earth.

  “Corinne Lyon,” the woman said. “She never recovered.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IT WAS a beautiful face with fine structure and rich coloring impossible to capture in a photo gravure. The dark eyes glowed, the lids delicately shadowed, fine brows curving in natural arches above. The lips were soft and pleasantly rounded, and below each high cheekbone there was a fragile hollow. It was a face I had seen thousands of times as I stared into the mirror. The coloring was entirely different, but the features were almost identical. The hair fell in natural waves, so rich in color that the black had dark blue sheens.

  “I had to do it,” she said.

  “I never suspected,” I replied.

  “I am an actress,” my sister Maureen said. “A fine one, too, even if I do say so myself. Portraying Corinne Lyon was an easy task. She was quite a flamboyant old dame. The part required no subtle shadings, no real art at all. I just had to rant and rave and throw my weight about. The make up was rather difficult, but I got used to it after a while.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why did you do it?”

  “Julia”—she whispered. “Don’t ask me. Please—just go back to the house. I never wanted to involve you in this. I don’t want to involve you now. We’ll be gone in a little while, and you can go back to London and it will all be over. Will you do that?”

  “You are the woman in the Mann case,” I said.

  “You know?”

  “Just a little. Enough—” I said. My voice was cold.

  “You—you think I’m a criminal, don’t you?”

  “Aren’t you?” I asked crisply.

  “No!” she said passionately. “I never wanted any of this! I never wanted any of it to happen—”

  For a moment I thought she was going to break down. Her voice was strained and her eyes were full of urgent pleading. Then she gained control of herself. She drew her shoulders back and tossed one end of the boa over them. The gesture was regal. When she spoke again there was an intrinsic dignity in her voice.

  “I have never been perfect,” she said. “I have lived in—in my own style, and it’s not the style in fashion today. I have done things that would not be considered proper, but they were proper for me, for my way of life. I will not apologize for them, Julia, not even to you. I have lived my way because I’ve had to. It’s never been easy.”

  “I know that, Maureen.”

  “No,” she said. “You don’t know, and I wouldn’t have you know. I have always wanted you to be—everything I could never be. That’s one of the reasons I never tried to see you. I sent what money I could and left the rest up to Mattie and Bill. I knew they’d do the best for you, and I was not able to do anything more.”

  We were still standing by the gazebo. It was dark now. The air was thick with hazy blue shadow. A few bright points of starlight were beginning to frost the sky, and the moon was struggling to rise above a bank of clouds. I could see my sister clearly. Her face was suffused with emotion, and it was lovely with a poignant loveliness that made me want to cry.

  “I see that I must tell you everything,” she said. “If I don’t, you will think much worse—”

  “Tell me, Maureen. I have to know.”

  “Yes, I see that now. I must hurry. He’ll be coming soon, and we will have to leave. I don’t know where to begin—”

  “Begin with Clinton Mann,” I said.

  She hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching mine, and then she began to speak in that beautifully modulated voice.

  “I met Clinton Mann at an art gallery,” she said. “I go to those places frequently. I love to see beautiful things, perhaps because there have been so few of them in my life. We started a conversation, and he asked me to tea. I—I was very impressed with him, and I could see he liked me. He was much older, of course, but very distinguished, very kind. There was something—magnetic, and I hoped that at last I might be able to have something stable in my life, even if the stability was just being the mistress of a man like him. Does that shock you?”

  “No, Maureen,” I replied quietly.

  “Three days after we met, he gave me the key to his apartment. He lived over the galleries, you know, and the key opened the main door downstairs. He had mentioned the exhibit, but I had paid little attention to it. Then—how shall I say this—Bart and Jerry found out about my friendship with Clinton Mann. They were staying at the same hotel I was in at the time, a sordid place, so ugly. Earlier, when I was really down—desperate, no food, no money, no hope—I had had a—friendship—with Bart. He was a brute, a monster, but he kept me from starving. I hate to think of those days.”

  I said nothing. I was trembling slightly.

  “They stole my key. They went
to the galleries. They stole the stones and murdered Clinton Mann. I got there just after they’d gone. I had thought I had misplaced my key, but when I saw what had happened, I knew they had taken it. I knew they had done this. I—I saw Clinton on the floor. I saw the blood—”

  “Maureen,” I pleaded. “Don’t. You don’t have to tell me any more. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to—”

  “I must,” she said, and her voice was calm. “I must tell you all so that you won’t think—terrible things about me. Bart and Jerry went back to the hotel, very casual about the whole thing. They went out to dinner, as though nothing had happened, and I broke into their room. I found the jewels and I took them. I was—so frightened.”

  She paused for a moment. In the silence we could hear the crickets under the stones and the sound of the river as it washed along the bank. It was cold. I folded my arms about my body, shivering. Maureen did not seem to notice the chill. She was oblivious to it. Nothing was real to her now but the horror of the story she was relating.

  “I wanted to go to the police, but I knew I couldn’t do that. They do not have much respect for people like me. I knew they would think I was involved—and I was, however indirectly. I knew I had to leave immediately, before Bart and Jerry got back to their room. I went to the music hall and told Mattie what had happened. I had no money. She gave me enough to come here to Lyon House—”

  “Why Lyon House?” I asked. “Were you and Edward—”

  “We had been,” she said, before I could finish my question. “We had been keeping company for a long time, every time he came to London. I never loved him—he’s selfish and vain and quite cruel in his way—but there is a physical thing between us. I’m not proud of it. It is something I cannot help. It’s there, and I—I am its slave. I tried to break away from Edward, but it was impossible. I had hoped that the friendship with Clinton Mann would give me the strength I needed. But it did not work out that way. I came to Lyon House. I came at night, secretly, bringing the jewels with me. I met Edward in the garden.”