Stranger by the Lake

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  They went on upstairs, much to my disappointment. I felt cheated, as though I’d seen a brief preview of an absolutely fascinating movie and knew I’d never be able to see the whole film. I adored eavesdropping on strangers, justifying this admittedly impolite predilection by telling myself that, as a writer, I needed to find out all I could about my fellow beings. I had heard some absorbing conversations on buses, in restaurants and department stores, but none of them had been quite as intriguing as the one I had just listened to. It had a flavor of mystery, of romantic conspiracy. Wondering what the two of them were planning that required such secrecy, I gave full play to my writer’s imagination.

  The drama wasn’t quite finished. I discovered that I hadn’t been the only one who had been eavesdropping on the pair. A door near the desk had been open all this time. It was recessed and half obscured by shadows, and I presumed it led to an office. I was suddenly aware that a dark form was lurking there in the doorway, and then Charlie stepped out of the shadows. He was looking toward the staircase, his expression pained, and I knew at once that he had heard everything. His cheeks were ashen, his dark brown eyes filled with conflicting emotions.

  He turned to the desk and saw me sitting on the sofa. I blushed furiously.

  Charlie didn’t say anything. He glared at me as I got up and strolled toward the stairs. I was horribly embarrassed, yet I managed to effect an air of casual unconcern. I could feel his eyes on my back as I went up the stairs, moving with deliberate slowness. By the time I reached my room I was beginning to see the humorous aspects of the situation, and I smiled wryly as I closed the door behind me and locked it.

  The logs had burned down to a heap of smoldering orange-pink ashes, snapping pleasantly and sending up little showers of sparks. The room was delightfully warm and cozy as I undressed and slipped into a pair of ruffled pink cotton pajamas. I turned out the overhead light but left the bedside lamp glowing. It was much too early to think of sleep, but fortunately I had brought along a thick historical novel all about dashing cavaliers and buxom maids, my favorite kind of reading. Crawling between the crisp linen sheets and pulling the feathery soft covers around me, I opened the book and was soon lost to the world of flamboyant romance and deeds of bold bravado.

  Three hours and two hundred pages later I was finally drowsy enough to put the book aside and turn out the lamp. The room was suddenly thick with velvety black darkness that gradually lightened as moonlight seeped in through the parted drapes. It was no longer raining, but rain dripped from the eaves with a soft splashing sound, and my traveling alarm clock ticked quietly on the bedside table. I had set it for eight, and it was after one now. Closing my eyes, I nestled under the covers and let the gentle noises lull me to sleep.

  “She’s in there,” the voice said. It was a dream voice, muffled and far away. “She’s going to Gordonwood, I tell you! She overheard——” The voice drifted away, followed by the sound of footsteps moving down the hall outside my door.

  I sat up in bed, abruptly awake, completely alert, with no lingering traces of drowsiness. The room was filled with silvery-gray light, long black shadows sliding along the walls, a dim pink-orange glow flickering in the fireplace. The luminous hands of the clock showed three in the morning. Something had awakened me with a sudden start, and whatever it was had been real, not a creation of my subconscious. My nerves were taut, and I was leaning forward, straining to hear.

  There was a faint rattle, as though someone were turning the doorknob, then a few seconds of silence followed by a crisp, rustling sound like dry leaves. I had the acute sensation that someone was standing just outside the door, but there was no sound now. My heart pounding, I turned on the lamp. Dazzling yellow-white light flooded the room, banishing the shadows and bringing a sharp sense of reality. I got out of bed and threw open the door. The hallway was empty, although I had the strange feeling that someone had just left it. I shook my head, frowning. It must have been my imagination after all, I decided, and it was only after I had closed the door and locked it that I noticed the scrap of paper on the floor.

  Someone had evidently slipped it under the door, which would explain the rustling sound I had heard. The paper had been torn off a cheap tablet, and it contained four words in a childish block print: Go away. Don’t interfere. I held the message in my hand, staring down at it in total bewilderment. Go away from where? Don’t interfere with what? It made no sense, no sense whatsoever.

  I crumpled it up and tossed it into the wastebasket, convinced it was nothing more than a rather wicked prank. Checking to be sure the door was securely locked, I climbed back into bed, thoroughly irritated by the whole affair. Mysterious conversations, cryptic messages—what a preposterous way to be starting a holiday. Thank goodness I would be going on to Gordonwood in the morning. Aunt Agatha would undoubtedly find my little adventure quite amusing, and perhaps I would too. It would be absurd to let it worry me, and yet … I sighed deeply and closed my eyes, determined to banish the vague uneasiness I felt stealing over me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Charlie Grayson agreed to drive me to Gordonwood the next morning. His manner was politely indifferent as he carried my bags out to the old Chevrolet he had brought around front. Putting my bags in the trunk, he opened the back door for me. Never once did he look directly into my eyes, and I fancied there was something rather furtive about him, as though he had indeed slipped the note under my door last night and was afraid I might make mention of it. There was a meter up front, as in a regular taxi, and he pulled the flag down and drove away from the inn as it began its monotonous click. I settled back in the seat, staring out the window at the quaint old shopfronts of Gordonville.

  Gordonville proper looked much as it must have looked fifty years ago, I thought. The cobblestone street was worn smooth with age, and giant oak trees spread soft shadows over the uneven sidewalks, their leaves making a rustling brown-green canopy through which flecks of sunlight danced. With the exception of a somewhat garish cinema advertising the new Dirk Bogarde film, the buildings were of mellowed old brick, tan or beige, several of them adorned with white wooden filigree. The tea shop was pink brick, soft and subdued, while the town hall, across the village green, was of ponderous brownstone, its Victorian cupola green-tarnished copper. Were it not for the cars parked along the curbs and the unquestionably modern citizens ambling along the sidewalks, one could have sworn it was still the turn of the century.

  I had been here only once before, thirteen years ago, when my mother had brought me for a lengthy visit after my father’s death. I had been too young then to make any deep observations, but I remembered the bright yellow daffodils that bloomed in neat beds in the square, around the statue of the first Robert Gordon who had established the village in the late 1700’s. Aunt Agatha had frequently come to London to visit my mother and me, each time begging us to come back to Gordonwood. Three years ago my mother had met and married a rather dashing middle-aged banker from Sydney and moved to Australia, where she was gloriously happy. Aunt Agatha had come up for the wedding, but I had not seen her since, although she constantly wrote witty and vivacious letters. As I had spent my last vacation in Sydney, and as Aunt Agatha constantly urged me to come for a visit, I had decided to accept her invitation at last. Majorca could wait a couple of weeks, and I really was eager to see my aunt again.

  Gordonwood was a mile from the village, surrounded by woods and set on the edge of a small private lake. Charlie drove through the outskirts of Gordonville, passing small houses and cottages with neatly trimmed gardens, then turned down a country road with woods on either side. An occasional dogwood bloomed near the edge of the road, pink and white blossoms making a delicate mist of color against the darker trees, and there were wild yellow daisies and golden-orange poppies and small, purple-blue flowers I couldn’t identify. Sunlight sparkled with a brilliant dazzle, and the day was one of those rare spring days unequaled in any other part of the world. I completely forgot last night’s uneasiness, content
to sit back and enjoy the scenery. I was beginning to see why Aunt Agatha chose to remain at Gordonwood. It would be hard to give all this up for the bustling congestion of London, no matter how exciting that city might be.

  Charlie drove through two tall, precariously leaning graystone portals and we were on a wide crushed-shell drive winding through rolling lawns and untidy gardens shaded by giant oak trees that grew on the property. I could see glimpses of the lake through the trees in back, a brooding, blue-black body of water I had been warned against on my other visit, and then we came around a curve and I could see the house itself.

  Gordonwood was immense, and immensely old, two stories of heavy gray stone with dormer windows and a multileveled roof of dark green slate. Ivy half-covered one side of the house, and there was a great portico in front with six round white marble columns. Pink rose trees grew in black pots on the front porch, and the great golden oak entrance doors had darkened with age. The house was undeniably ugly, too large, too ponderous, but it had an aura of history and the fascination of all houses so steeped in years. A small gray carriage house on one side had been converted into a garage, and there was a comfortable-looking terrace under the boughs of an ancient oak, white marble steps leading down into the formal gardens.

  Charlie set my bags on the front porch near the door as I struggled to pull some bills out of my purse. Sitting behind the wheel again, he glanced up at the huge old house, then turned to look into my eyes. He seemed about to say something, I thought, about to impart some urgent message. Instead, he merely frowned and drove away, circling around the drive and speeding on back toward the portals. I was still holding the bills in my hand. He had been in such a hurry to leave he hadn’t waited to be paid. I shook my head, bewildered by his strange conduct but relieved to be here at last. I went up the flat marble steps and lifted the large brass knocker, rapping it on the hardened wood.

  I was totally unprepared for the man who opened the door. I could only stand and stare, completely at a loss for words.

  He was tall, with the strong solid body of an athlete, and he wore a pair of tight faded jeans and a bulky-knit sweater that emphasized powerful shoulders and slender waist. His hair was dark brown, curling at the back of his neck and tumbling in disorderly waves over his forehead, while his eyes were a deep, magnetic blue, the lids heavy, sleepy-looking, the dark brows arched. There were slight hollows under his high cheekbones, and his nose was Roman, his mouth generously wide, lips full and pink. I had seen such men in movies, of course, but this one was undeniably real.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news for you,” he said in a rich, deep voice. He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at me, head tilted at an angle.

  “Oh?”

  “Lady Gordon is seeing no one today,” he said. “Tell me what you’re selling. Perhaps I’ll buy some.”

  “I’m not selling anything,” I replied.

  “You’re not? Pity.” He put a lot into that last word. I tried not to blush as he studied me, clearly liking what he saw. He was devilishly good-looking, exuding virility and rakish charm. I tried to compose myself as his mouth curled into a casual smile geared to demolish the strongest feminine heart.

  “Would you mind telling me who you are?” I asked, my voice crisp and businesslike.

  “The name’s Craig Stanton.”

  “You work here?”

  “You might say that, though I’ve been doing very little work the past few weeks.”

  “You’re Lady Gordon’s employee?”

  “I’m her guest. I’m writing a biography of Sir Robert Gordon, the Victorian Sir Robert. Lady Gordon was kind enough to let me come here for research.”

  “Charming,” I said. “Then you’ll be staying here too. Would you mind bringing my bags in, Mr. Stanton.”

  “Your bags? I don’t understand——”

  “I’m Susan Marlow, Lady Agatha’s niece.”

  He looked startled. “But you’re not supposed to arrive until sometime next week. We’re not ready——”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I’m not disappointed, believe me,” he said, picking up the bags and leading me into the hall. “Agatha will be, though. She intended to have the whole house aired and cleaned from top to bottom. She’s hardly talked about anything besides your visit for the past week. You’ve taken us by surprise, I’m afraid.”

  “My letter clearly stated——” I sighed, letting the matter drop. Aunt Agatha never paid attention to dates, and it was really of no importance. I was here, back at Gordonwood again, and that was all that mattered. I ignored Craig Stanton, too captivated by the grandeur of the hall to pay attention to anything else at the moment.

  It was vast in proportion. There was dark mahogany wainscoting on the lower part of the walls, the upper part done in rich light-blue paper embossed with darker blue fleurs-de-lis. A heavy chandelier dangled from the high ceiling, dripping crystal pendants that gleamed with blue and violet facets, and plush Persian carpets were scattered over the darkly varnished parquet floor. At the end of the hall a stately staircase rose halfway up to a landing, where it branched off into two flights of stairs that went on up to the second floor in either direction. The furniture was ornate, every piece an antique, and there was a profusion of plants about, their leaves of every shade from lightest jade to darkest green.

  “It’s breathtaking,” I whispered, awed.

  Craig Stanton nodded in assent. “But frightfully impractical to live in,” he added. “It’s impossible to heat this place, and you couldn’t hire enough servants nowadays to keep it clean. Don’t look too closely at anything, or you’re bound to see a layer of dust.”

  He seemed to know quite a lot about the house, I thought. “How long have you been staying here, Mr. Stanton?” I inquired.

  “Three months,” he replied. “A rugged three months.”

  “You don’t like Gordonwood?”

  “On the contrary, I find it fascinating, and your aunt, of course, is an incredible hostess, but you’ll have to admit the place is pretty well isolated. There’s nothing much for a healthy young buck to do, once he’s tired of books and examining old documents. I—uh—suddenly find the old place much more interesting,” he drawled lazily, “now that you’re here. I had no idea Agatha’s niece was such a stunning bird.”

  “I’m not a bird,” I said irritably. “I’m a writer.”

  “So I’ve been told. Intellect doesn’t hurt, though I must say I prefer my girls to be a bit featherbrained. That sort’s much easier to handle.”

  “Mr. Stanton——” I began.

  “Craig, please. May as well start off on an informal basis. We’re going to be great chums.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” I said stiffly.

  “I am,” he replied, smiling broadly.

  I gave Craig Stanton a long, cool look. I knew his type all too well. He had great charm, charm it was almost impossible not to respond to, and therein lay the greatest danger. I knew from past experience that such immediate warmth often concealed an overconfident arrogance. A great many women found it impossible not to capitulate to men like Craig Stanton, and in his case stunning good looks would make it all the easier. I knew that I would have to be on guard constantly with him. He leaned casually against the wall, hands thrust in pockets, and there was a gleam of amusement in his dark blue eyes, almost as though he could read my thoughts and found my reservations laughable.

  “Where is my aunt?” I inquired.

  “She’s at Dower House.”

  “Dower House?” I said, and then I remembered the small gray house with its green roof that stood under the oak trees on the other side of the gardens. Many old estates had such houses, built to accommodate newlyweds and give them a certain amount of privacy away from the rest of the family.

  “She’s visiting Althea,” he said.

  The name was vaguely familiar. Of course, I thought. Aunt Agatha had mentioned the woman in several of her letters. Althea
Dawson was an artist of sorts and a permanent guest at Gordonwood. She was in her middle fifties like my aunt and also a widow. The two of them had been schoolgirls together, it seemed, and Althea had come to Gordonwood two years ago after her husband’s final illness. Althea was supposed to have been quite talented in her youth, but that talent had eventually been lost due to an overfondness for gin.

  “Would you like me to show you to your room?” Craig Stanton inquired. “Then I’ll dash over to Dower House and inform Lady Agatha of your arrival. It’ll give you a chance to freshen up a bit.”

  “You know which room my aunt intends me to have?”

  He nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s not anywhere near mine. I’m on the other side of the house. Pity.”

  “You’re rather fresh, Mr. Stanton,” I said icily.

  “And you’re rather serious, pet. Most women like a bit of teasing. I promise to be on my best behavior.” He picked up the bags, grinning at me. “Come along now, I’ll take you to your room.”

  I followed him up the staircase. We turned left at the landing, proceeding on up to the second floor. There was a vast hall running the length of the house, with two smaller halls at either end, each of them ending in narrow stairs in back that led down to the kitchen area and the unused servants’ quarters. At present my aunt employed only two servants, a cook and a maid, both of whom lived in Gordonville, driving in every morning. There were over thirty rooms here, Craig Stanton explained, almost as though I were a tourist and he a guide. Only a dozen or so rooms were open, the rest closed up and filled with dust-sheeted furniture.

  “I’ve been here before, you know,” I said, disliking his proprietary tone.

  “Of course,” he retorted. “Just thought I’d bring you up to date. It’s a monster of a place, isn’t it? A person could easily get lost trying to find his way around.”