Stranger by the Lake

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  That, too, vanished, and I felt incredibly foolish as reason returned and I realized how preposterous the fear had been in the first place. I had reacted in precisely the same way the heroine of one of my books would have reacted. Had someone glided down the hall, pausing at the door of my room and then turning into the east wing, and then waited there in the doorway? I doubted it now. The dark form had been merely a mass of shadows, and the click, the creaking had been perfectly normal noises. I tried to convince myself that someone hadn’t opened the door and gone into one of the rooms. There was one sure way of finding out. I could march down the hall, open the door and look inside. I wasn’t about to. Not that I was afraid, I told myself. The idea simply didn’t appeal to me.

  Leaving the east wing, I returned to the other hall and hurried down it, turning left and going down the wide main hall, relieved to see sunlight spilling through the west windows and dappling the garnet carpet with flecks of gold. I paused at the head of the stairs, smoothing the skirt of my green linen dress and brushing a curl away from my temple. Aunt Agatha would be waiting for me, and I wanted to be composed. I took a deep breath, ridding myself of the last traces of uneasiness, and then moved down the stairs, a bit too briskly to be really dignified. I told myself that it was merely my eagerness to see Aunt Agatha that made me move so quickly.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I was rather surprised to find the drawing room empty. Aunt Agatha hadn’t come in yet, which gave me further time to compose myself and examine the beautifully appointed room. Victorian in style, with ornate furniture, it was nevertheless light and airy, done in shades of brown, beige, yellow, and golden wheat color. A pair of French windows stood open, leading out onto the terrace, and sunlight came pouring through in shimmering rays that brought out golden tones in the waxed parquet floor and touched the edge of a brown, orange, and beige Persian carpet. A portrait of Lady Arabella Gordon hung over the white marble fireplace.

  I studied the painting. Done in the florid, overly dramatic style of the period, it showed a plump, rather self-satisfied matron posed against a backdrop of rocky gray hills with yellow flowers growing in the crevices. She wore a flowing white dress with a bold green sash, and held a green parasol over her shoulder. Dark ebony hair was pulled away from the oval face in a severe bun, and the features were patrician, the eyes dark brown, the mouth quite smug. Certainly not a beautiful woman, I thought, but a strong one. I could easily imagine her trouping through the deserts and giving the Arab bearers hell.

  There was a noisy patter on the terrace outside, and I gave a little cry of alarm as a great silver-gray creature came bounding in through the French windows. He stopped, staring at me with startled yellow-brown eyes, evidently as surprised as I was. He was a magnificent animal, his body lean and sleek, his short fur like glossy velvet, and he looked bewildered at finding me here, not knowing whether to growl or whine with pleasure.

  “Friends?” I said, my voice a bit shaky. “You’re a lovely thing, you are, but do you bite?”

  The animal lunged toward me, placing two padded paws on my shoulders and giving me a great slurpy kiss with a long pink tongue. I almost lost my balance.

  “Easy, fellow!” I protested. “Let’s not carry this friendship thing too far!”

  “He likes you,” Aunt Agatha exclaimed, striding briskly into the room from the terrace. “Great clumsy beast, isn’t he? Down, Earl!- Sit! You see, he has a frightfully affectionate temperament, completely unlike his brother. Prince is another matter altogether. Surly as can be, and quite disrespectful—not on the carpet, Earl. On the hearth. There, that’s a love.”

  Earl curled up on the marble hearth, head resting on his front paws, and his eyes devoured me with excessive affection. I felt sure he was going to pounce over for another kiss at any moment.

  “My dear Susan!” Aunt Agatha cried, throwing her arms wide to embrace me. “This is outrageous! You weren’t supposed to get here till next week and everything’s disastrously disordered. We don’t even have electricity! Can you imagine?” She gave me a vigorous hug and then held me back at arm’s length to examine me. “Nevertheless, I’m elated. Simply elated! It’s such fun having you here.”

  Aunt Agatha was tall and large-boned, a big woman with the red-blooded vitality of a female athlete. Her short-clipped hair was sandy, liberally streaked with gray, and her long face was undeniably plain, weatherworn, lined with age, yet her large blue eyes were radiantly clear and sparkled with youthful enthusiasm. She wore sensible brown shoes and a pinkish-brown tweed suit, the skirt several inches below the knees. She was a striking figure, exuding strength and character that would have made beauty superfluous.

  “Sorry I didn’t meet you when you came in,” she said, her voice rich and hearty, “but Althea was having one of her spells this morning and I had to scold her out of it. She keeps imagining things—I’m quite worried. Of course we have had a lot of excitement recently, but I’m afraid she’s going off the deep end——” She shook her head, a crease between her brows.

  “I’m eager to meet Althea,” I said.

  “You will, dear. She’s divine, actually, though hardly a day passes that we don’t go at it like a couple of cats. But then our quarrels are so stimulating. Poor thing’s been a bit under the weather lately what with all that’s been going on. Susan, dear, do sit down. Don’t hover!”

  Aunt Agatha sprawled out on the Victorian sofa, crossing her legs and resting her elbow on the arm, her long body completely relaxed. I sat in one of the yellow chairs, and Earl padded over to lay his heavy head in my lap, his eyes looking up at me with slavish devotion. I scratched his ears, still a little perturbed by this sudden outpouring of affection.

  “Tell me, dear,” Aunt Agatha said. “Did you have a nice journey down?”

  “The train ride was uneventful,” I replied, “though I had a dandy time at the inn last night.”

  “You spent the night at the inn?”

  I nodded. “There was no one to meet me,” I said, “and it was pouring rain. The room was quite pleasant, but the innkeeper——”

  “Charlie Grayson’s tetched,” she interrupted. “Poor thing’s always been a bit slow, though he’s a fine, responsible lad, quite capable of running the inn. He’s an amiable sort—though distracted! What happened?”

  I related my experiences at the inn, telling her about Charlie’s curious attitude, the mysterious conversation I had overheard, and the message someone had slipped under my door. Aunt Agatha laughed uproariously, shaking her head.

  “You blundered into the middle of one of our famous illicit affairs,” she said. “They’re rampant in Gordonville. You see, we get very poor reception on the telly, dear. What else is one to do? Gordonville’s a veritable—what’s that place in America? There was a book about it, I believe, and a television series——”

  “Peyton Place?”

  “Gordonville’s a veritable Peyton Place, though you wouldn’t guess it on first sight. So quaint and serene on the surface, but sub rosa——”

  “What about the note?” I protested. “Surely that——”

  “Oh, I have no doubt Charlie slipped the note under your door, afraid you’d talk about what you’d overheard and give the inn a bad name. He tries to run a respectable inn, though I must say his conduct hasn’t always been blameless. Involved in a rather delicious scandal himself, he was, a few months ago——”

  Her eyes danced with glee as she told me about Charlie’s affair with a young actress who had come down from London to stay at the inn. According to Aunt Agatha, the girl had been stunning, a rather mysterious figure in Gordonville. No one knew who she was or why she had come, but Charlie had been fascinated by her. She had her bit of fun, leading him on, no doubt finding it amusing to toy with the affections of a boy much younger and obviously smitten.

  “Shameless hussy!” my aunt exclaimed. “Probably couldn’t pay for her room. People were outraged, I don’t mind telling you. Charlie may be a bit peculiar, but he is a
strikingly handsome lad, quite virile. Several local girls would like nothing better than to snare him. He’s dependable, and he owns the inn, and there’s plenty who’d consider themselves lucky to marry his likes. Good husband material isn’t all that common in these parts.”

  “What happened to the actress?” I inquired.

  “No one knows. She just—vanished, I guess you might say. No one saw her leave town. She just suddenly wasn’t there. Some say Charlie strangled her in a fit of anger and buried her in the basement of the inn. Nonsense, of course! People love to imagine such horrors, love to talk about ’em even more.”

  “Strange,” I said quietly, thinking about the tormented expression I had seen in Charlie’s handsome brown eyes.

  “Speaking of horrors, dear, your last book——”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “I adored it! But those last few chapters—chilling! So wonderfully scary. When the girl was trapped in the ruins and the murderer was prowling the moors—absolutely unnerving. I didn’t sleep a wink after I finished it. Is the new one scary, too?”

  “Very,” I said.

  “Be sure you send me a copy when it comes out. I read so much, over a dozen books a week. Now that I no longer gad about there’s nothing else to do. Incidentally, dear, how’s your mother?” she asked, changing the subject abruptly. “I want to hear all about her. She’s so wrapped up in that rich Australian of hers that she never writes. It’s been ages since I’ve even received a postcard! Fancy your mother catching a banker. At her age, I might add. But then she always was a captivating creature, even as a girl. I remember how she used to fascinate all the boys——”

  Having asked me to tell her all about my mother, she proceeded to tell me all about my mother, relating a whole series of splendidly funny anecdotes about the days when they had both been daughters of a country parson, wildly unconventional lasses eager to leave the parsonage and kick up their heels in the city. No one could talk like Aunt Agatha, and I sat back in my chair, smiling at her phrases and relishing her bawdy humor. She was quite earthy in a hearty, rollicking way that was sheer delight.

  “What do you think of him, dear?” she asked. I saw that I was going to have to get used to these sudden changes of subject.

  “Who?” I asked, not very convincingly I must add.

  “Craig Stanton, idiot. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice?”

  “I noticed, all right,” I said.

  “You couldn’t help but, what? If I were thirty years younger I’d give him a run for his money, and that’s no joke! As is, I find it enchanting to have him about. Such charm, and such manners! Fancy a man who looks like that being a scholar. I could easily imagine him stamping through the Amazon jungles on some dangerous expedition or stealing diamond bracelets from dissolute countesses on the French Riviera, for that matter, but he’s actually quite dedicated to his work. Frightfully intelligent chap, and very respected in academic circles.”

  “Aunt Agatha, who is he? I must say I was startled to find him here, and all this talk about the Gordon papers——”

  “He told you about that? I was rather hoping to save it for later on, as a surprise. I’m so excited about it! And you can help us search! But in answer to your question: Craig Stanton is thirty-three years old and a graduate of Oxford. Graduated with several honors, as a matter of fact. He wrote a book about the Koh-i-noor diamond and the intrigue surrounding it—a colorful, exotic book, full of strange lore and bloody deeds, absolutely fascinating. You must read it, dear. I have a copy upstairs.”

  “I will,” I said. “And?”

  “And he went to India to do research, and while he was there he became interested in Sir Robert Gordon. Gordon was a lieutenant in the dragoons, you know, in his youth before he started his explorations. He was an aide to Sir Charles Napier, that crusty old commander. Gordon was the only man in India who could speak all the dialects, and he could also pass himself off as a native. He was invaluable to Napier, acting as a sort of secret service agent, living with the natives, finding out things no other white man could hope to learn——”

  “You’re wandering,” I said.

  “Be patient, Susan! It was while he was in India that Gordon conducted his famous experiment with apes. He knew all the other languages, and to pass the time he decided to learn ape-talk too. He had several apes living in his quarters, and he actually recorded over eighty distinct sounds. If he could have continued with it, I’m sure he would ultimately have learned to communicate, but of course the infamous brothel report put an end to his career in India. Napier wanted to know all about the notorious houses full of painted men his officers were said to visit. Gordon’s report was a little too clinical. He was just being thorough, of course, but guilt by association—all that sort of thing. His fellow officers were jealous of him and used the report to drum him out of the service. Just as well. He went on to do much more exciting things——”

  “Marvelous,” I said. “I’ve learned all about Sir Robert Gordon’s early career, but absolutely nothing about Craig Stanton.”

  “It’s all relevant, dear,” Aunt Agatha said a bit testily. “You see, Craig learned all this while he was in India and decided that his next book would be about Gordon. Naturally, he came to Gordonwood. He’d already done reams of preliminary research, but of course he couldn’t write the book he wanted to write without access to the family documents. I gave him my permission, although I did have my doubts about it. Why dig up all those old Victorian scandals? Why let a perfect stranger prowl through the trunks and boxes and read all those intimate letters and journals? It had never been done before. My husband’s ancestors refused to let anyone see the material, and even my husband, may he rest in peace, refused to grant permission to any would-be biographers.”

  “Then why did you?” I inquired.

  “I thought, what the hell? So many books have been written about Gordon, why not let someone write the real story? And I must say Craig was very persuasive.”

  “So he moved in.”

  “Not at first, dear. He stayed at the inn and came out every day, but I thought that was terribly impractical. Why spend all that money to rent a room at the inn when Gordonwood had so many rooms? I asked him to come, and I must say I haven’t regretted it. It’s been divine to have a man around again, and I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun.”

  “I see,” I said, rather primly.

  “You don’t approve?”

  “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove either one.”

  Aunt Agatha narrowed her eyes and gave me a wicked little smile. “So,” she said, “you two have already had differences?”

  “Hardly that,” I retorted. “He just seems terribly cheeky, and——”

  “Wonderful!” she cried. “The chemistry’s already beginning to work! You two were made for each other. You both write, and you have so much in common. He’s a marvelous catch, and he couldn’t do better than you, even if you are my niece. What fun! He’s ripe for the right woman, and——”

  “Nonsense!” I said.

  “——and,” she continued, “you aren’t getting any younger, dear. Being a writer, being independent is all very well and good, but a woman needs a man, and this one’s perfect. Grab him!”

  “I’m not the least bit interested in Mr. Craig Stanton,” I told her in a cool reserved voice. “Simply because a man has a magnificent build and sexy blue eyes doesn’t mean I’m going to lose my head. You may find him irresistible, but I can assure you my own reactions——”

  “Fiddlesticks!” she exclaimed, interrupting me. “You modern girls are so clever in so many ways. You make your own careers, support yourselves, take karate lessons, and learn to fly airplanes, but when it comes to the fundamentals you’re sadly lacking. I knew how to get my man—once I laid eyes on him he didn’t have a chance—and look at your mother! She snapped up a banker and shipped off to Australia when she was old enough to take up knitting and forget the whole thing.”
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  “There are more important things in life,” I retorted.

  She smiled, fiddling with the string of pearls around her neck. She was a lusty, indomitable old girl with marvelous traits, but she could sometimes be quite irritating. She went right to the heart of the matter, stripping away all pretense and nonessentials, and I had the impression she knew more about my emotional makeup then I knew myself. It was an infuriating feeling, and I frowned, rubbing Earl’s head vigorously. He looked up at me with such soulful eyes that I had to laugh.

  “How much did Craig tell you about the Gordon papers?” she asked.

  “He told me about the diary entry,” I replied, “and the loose pages he found in an old trunk. He said Sir Hubert Ashcrofton came down to examine them and verified their authenticity. Do you really believe the manuscripts exist, Aunt Agatha?”

  She nodded briskly. “I’m certain of it. They’re here—somewhere in the house.”

  “I find it hard to believe,” I said. “Such things just don’t happen in real life. If the manuscripts did exist, surely they’d have been discovered years ago. It’s—it’s too incredible to think they’d still be here after all this time.”

  “Humph! I suppose you would have said the same thing if you had been at Malahide Castle fifty years ago. That was pretty incredible, too, and the Boswell papers were much older than the Gordon manuscripts would be.”

  I had to agree with her there. The discovery of the Boswell papers had been one of the most amazing and romantic episodes in the history of literature. Malahide Castle was in Ireland, a rambling old place with battlements and turrets and even a moat. It had been crammed full of letters and journals that James Boswell had written during the eighteenth century. They had turned up, over a hundred and fifty years later, in garrets and attics, in cupboards and ancient chests, in an old box that was supposed to contain a croquet set. As late as 1940, when the government was looking for a place to store food during wartime, two chests of valuable papers had been discovered in an outhouse at Malahide. It was a remarkable story, undeniably true. The papers were still being sorted out and published by Yale University.