Stranger by the Lake

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  “What do you do? For a livin’ I mean.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I—I’m a writer.”

  “A writer?” He looked suddenly suspicious, thrusting his jaw out. “Are you a reporter?” he asked gruffly.

  “A reporter? Gracious no! I write—poetry. Nothing elaborate, just free verse. A reporter? Do I look like one of those dreadful people?”

  “I guess not,” he said, relaxing. “They’re all the time botherin’ me. Wanna know what I’m doin’ in England, wanna know if I’m plannin’ some kind of deal. One of th’ rascals slipped into my hotel room in London a few days ago, snoopin’ around, tryin’ to find something he could use.”

  “You don’t mean it?” I said. “Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing. You must be very important——”

  “Not important, just rich. You see, I’ve got all these oil wells——”

  It went very smoothly after that. I knew from past experience that men liked nothing so much as talking about themselves, and Stephen Kirk was a case in point. His eyes lighted up and he grew very enthusiastic as he told me about his business ventures—terribly complicated, having to do with oil and stocks and bonds and private corporations—and in his zeal he forgot all about me and my sweater. The woman in mauve brought over a tray of food: tiny frosted cakes, delicate sandwiches with the crust trimmed off, a thick blue pot of tea with matching cups. The Texan continued to talk as I poured the tea.

  “My, that’s terribly impressive,” I said when he finally paused for breath. “All that money——”

  “That’s just the problem,” he replied. “All that money—how to spend it. We’ve established this foundation, you see, and we give grants, scholarships, all that sort of thing, but there’s still too much money left. I’m over here lookin’ for a way to unload some of those dollars.”

  “Oh?” I reached for one of the small sandwiches, politely interested, rather vague. In truth, I wanted to bombard him with questions, but that would have spoiled everything.

  “Something big,” he continued, “something we can write off on the tax returns. You see, I went to this small Methodist college, and I’ve already built ’em a library and a science building and a couple of new dormitories. I was thinkin’, we’ve got this great new library, but there’s nothing special about it, nothin’ to distinguish it from hundreds of other libraries in colleges all over the states. I decided to start a collection. You know, private letters and journals and manuscripts of famous writers and painters and poets, that sort of thing. The University of Texas has one of the best collections in the states, and at Baylor they’ve got the Browning Library. Waco’s the Mecca of Browning scholars. They have the largest collection of Browning papers in the world. That’s the kind of thing I’d like to get started at my old alma mater.”

  “Fascinating,” I said. “Here, have some more tea. These cakes are delicious. And so you came over to England to try and find things for your collection?”

  He nodded. “I heard about some Shelley items. There were some letters he’d written to Claire Clairmont and the original drafts of some of his minor poems, privately owned. The fellow was plannin’ to sell ’em, and I was ready to buy, but then I got wind of something much more exciting.”

  “Indeed?”

  He nodded. This is it, I thought. He’s going to tell me about the Gordon papers. I waited, but Stephen Kirk sipped his tea and lounged back in his chair, silent for the first time. It was terribly frustrating, but I knew I couldn’t prod him. He gave the impression of an innocent abroad, a simple, genial fellow with hayseed in his hair, but that impression was vastly deceiving. He was extremely intelligent, extremely capable, but these traits were worn like a loose garment. His brash charm and boyish mannerisms could be terribly misleading to the unwary.

  “And did your business bring you to Gordonville?” I inquired, my voice light and airy.

  “You might say that,” he replied. “Uh——surely you’ve read about the Gordon manuscripts?”

  “It seems like I remember something in the papers——”

  “They haven’t been located yet,” he continued, “but there’s a strong possibility they exist.”

  “You hope to buy them?”

  “That’s right. It’d be a coup, a real coup.”

  “What if they’re not for sale?” I asked.

  “They will be,” he said firmly. “This fellow——” He paused, frowning. “I can’t really discuss it yet. All very hush-hush, you know, but I’ve been in touch with someone who promises me he can deliver the papers when and if they’re found.”

  It was pure hell, not being able to ask him the name of. the man he was in touch with. I finished my tea and ate one of the tiny cakes. I didn’t really need to ask the name. I felt sure I knew who it was, and I wondered how he planned to work it. Stephen Kirk was a genial philanthropist, colorful in his way but, I was sure, scrupulously honest. Aunt Agatha had made it clear that she wouldn’t sell the papers, but … Aunt Agatha could be dealt with. A horrifying thought entered my mind. My face must have turned pale, for Stephen Kirk leaned forward, a look of concern in his eyes.

  “Somethin’ wrong?” he inquired.

  “No. I—I just remembered an appointment.”

  Stephen Kirk smiled, relieved. “Glad you said that,” he told me. “I have an appointment myself.” He glanced at his watch. “Guess we’d better break up this little party. Shame I’m driving back to London tonight. I’d like to see you again.”

  “Maybe we’ll run into each other at Lady Whitelaw’s next party,” I replied, in control now.

  He paid for the tea, leaving an outrageous tip, and escorted me out of the shop. I saw a gleaming white Cadillac parked across the street, the interior tan rawhide, a Stetson hat sitting on the dashboard. It was precisely the kind of car the Texan would drive. We stood in front of the shop, exchanging polite remarks. He grinned amiably, tall and handsome in his pearl-gray suit and hand-tooled boots. He was reluctant to leave me, his eyes back on the sweater now. I gave him a false address in London and told him to look me up when I returned to the city.

  “It’s a promise,” he drawled.

  I started back towards the inn. Half a block away I paused, tunning to watch Stephen Kirk cross the street. He looked larger than life, bizarre and incongruous in this quaint, very British town. He climbed in the Cadillac and drove off, maneuvering the big car around a corner and disappearing down a side street.

  The inn looked strangely solemn as I opened the front door and stepped inside. No lights were burning, and only a few rays of pale yellow sunlight managed to seep in through the dirty glass windows in front. The lobby was deserted, curiously tomblike. I stared at the desk, littered with papers, and the shabby old sofa in a corner half hidden by rubber tree plants. Had it been only two nights ago that I had been sitting there, listening to the mysterious conversation between Vanessa Shaw and the man in the raincoat? It seemed that it had been weeks ago, so much had happened since. I thought about that conversation as I waited for someone to come to the desk. What I had overheard no longer seemed so mysterious.

  I remembered the man in the long black plastic raincoat and the black hat with the brim pulled down over his forehead. I hadn’t really been able to discern anything definite, but he had been tall, with broad shoulders. I had seen a strong jaw and a wide mouth. I was almost certain who he was, and Charlie would confirm it. It was a plot, all right, and it was extremely clever, but it wasn’t going to work. As soon as I had proof, I intended to contact Scotland Yard. Sergeant Jacobs was a friend of mine, and he would take over. I fumed, thinking of the bold audacity of what they were attempting to do. They might have succeeded, had I not decided to pay a belated visit to Gordonwood, had Althea not owned a pair of powerful binoculars.…

  Where was Charlie? I stepped over to the desk and rang the bell, impatient. He would tell me everything, I was sure, even though he was still infatuated with Vanessa Shaw. I remembered how frightened he had been l
ast night down by the lake when he had heard Craig Stanton approaching. He had been terrified, poor lad, but it would be different here at the inn. We would go into the office and close the door, and he would be calmer today. He would tell me everything, and then I would phone Sergeant Jacobs. Where was Charlie? I rang the bell again, slamming my palm down on the tiny silver button.

  I don’t know how long I had been standing there before I noticed the silence. It hung heavy in the air, unnatural. There was no sound whatsoever in the inn. There should have been the sounds of activity from all over the place: electricity humming, dishes rattling, people moving about, however muted they might be here in the lobby. There was nothing but silence, like a pall in the air. I stepped through the archway that led into the restaurant. The huge room was very dark, deserted, walls spread with shadows, fireplace filled with cold ashes. Something was wrong, very wrong. I could sense it. There was an atmosphere, heavy, brooding. I had the feeling I was in a ship at sea, completely alone, adrift. I went back into the lobby, disturbed. I rang the bell again.

  There was no response.

  “Charlie!” I called.

  Charlie, Charlie, Charlie … the sound echoed up the stairwell. I was trembling now, although I didn’t rightly know why I should be.

  There were footsteps outside, and I saw the doorknob turning slowly, stealthily. I backed up against the desk, my heart beating rapidly. The fear was a live thing, there in the room with me, as real and tangible as the walls themselves. The door creaked loudly as someone pushed it open. I gasped, wanting to scream, but no sound would come. I saw the shadowy figure step inside, closing the door behind him. It was so dark in here, the only light coming feebly through the murky glass windows.

  My throat was dry, and my wrists felt limp. I was still clutching the neatly wrapped shoes, and I raised the bundle in one hand, prepared to hurl it at the intruder.

  The boy jumped when he saw me standing by the desk, as startled as I was. His thin face was quite pale, and he stood poised for flight before he finally recognized me. His thick black hair was combed back neatly, and he was wearing street clothes instead of the crisp white jacket he had worn two nights ago when he served me in the restaurant.

  “I’ve just aged ten years,” I said, attempting levity. “Tell me, is my hair still the right color? I have the strangest feeling that it’s just turned white.”

  He didn’t answer. He simply stared at me, his face still the color of ashes. Poor boy, I thought, amused. He had come in to start opening up the restaurant, only to find a stranger lurking in the lobby, ready to hurl a package at his head. I smiled wryly, stepping towards him.

  “I’m Susan Marlow,” I said. “I stayed here two nights ago. Remember? I have an appointment with Charlie.”

  “You—had an appointment?” he stammered.

  “I’ve been ringing the bell, but apparently no one’s around. Business really must be slow. Do you happen to know where Charlie is?”

  The boy nodded slowly. He was acting very peculiar, I thought, beginning to grow just a little irritated.

  “I came to get my things,” he said. “I don’t know what I’ll do now. I guess maybe I’ll find another job somewhere.”

  “What——?” I saw his expression. His eyes were redrimmed. He had been crying.

  “He was such a good person. He never harmed anyone——”

  “Where is Charlie?” I whispered.

  “In the morgue. He tripped on the stairs in the middle of the night. He tumbled all the way down. He—his neck was broken. It was a terrible thing, terrible——”

  “Charlie had an—accident?”

  “We found him this morning. He—he was wearing slippers, one slipper. The other one was at the top of the stairs.”

  I stared at the boy, and I was surprised at how calm I was. I should have been stunned, I should have been terrified, but I had none of the reactions I should have had. It was as though I were standing in ice cold water. Perhaps I wasn’t calm after all. Perhaps I was merely numb.

  “Did anyone see it happen?” I asked. My voice was level.

  The boy shook his head. “Charlie was all alone here last night. No one was staying in any of the rooms. There hasn’t been anyone here since you checked out yesterday morning.”

  How simple it must have been, I thought.

  “George and I came in at nine o’clock,” the boy continued. “George is the cook. We—we found him crumpled up there at the bottom of the stairs. His neck was like rubber, his head all twisted——” He shuddered, remembering. “George phoned Constable Clark right away. Dr. Matthews came over with him. They said it was an accident, a terrible, terrible accident——”

  Oh no, I thought, there was no accident. It was cleverly planned to look that way. They did it, and I have no proof, no proof whatsoever. I have nothing to go on now, nothing but my own suspicion. I’ll never know what it was Charlie meant to tell me. That’s wrong. I already know what he meant to tell, but there’s no one to verify it now. I have nothing to go on, nothing.…

  Moving past the boy as though in a trance, I stepped outside. I had to lean against the wall for a moment, sunshine pouring down, warming my face. I closed my eyes, trying to blot out the images that flashed in my mind. I could see the body hurtling down the stairs, see it fall in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. I could see the rubbery neck, the head at a curious angle, as though it had been fastened on wrong, and I could see the dark form hovering at the head of the staircase, triumphant. It was all as vivid in my mind as it would have been had I actually seen the crime committed. But it had been an accident, pure and simple. Poor Charlie had tripped and fallen. I had no proof to the contrary, and no one would believe me … unless I could find other evidence of what was going on.

  I walked down the street toward the square, still moving as though in a trance. How was I going to get that evidence? How was I going to find the proof I needed to convince the authorities of what was happening? I was certain in my own mind, but others would think I was imagining things unless I could show them something concrete. It was only after I had crossed the square and opened the door of my aunt’s car that I saw the bright red XKE Jaguar turning down one of the side streets. It had been parked in the garage next to the Bentley. Craig Stanton was behind the wheel now. I wondered if he was going to be late to his appointment.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I had been gone for little less than two hours. Craig Stanton, of course, had gone into Gordonville “to the stationer’s,” and my aunt was still up in her room taking her afternoon nap. Mary informed me of this and asked me if I would like her to bring me one of the sandwiches Cook had made for lunch. I shook my head. Mary went on back to her work, and I walked down the hall to where the ancient black and gold telephone stood on a mahogany table. I was rather dubious about the instrument, but after a moment of crackling, jangling static I heard the operator’s smooth male voice.

  “Number please?” he said.

  “I’d like to make a long distance call to London.”

  “Smashin’, ducks. Your number?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m calling from Gordonwood.”

  “That would be——” He gave me the number.

  “Thank you,” I said. Our charming male telephone operators were a wonder in this highly mechanized world.

  “Hold on, please. I’ll give you the London operator.”

  I waited impatiently, listening to the static and the voices of other operators in the distance. There were various tiny pops and screeches, and once I even heard snatches of conversation about a serious ailment a woman named Tessie had come down with. It was over five minutes before I got the London operator, another two or three before he finally connected me with Scotland Yard. I asked for Sergeant Jacobs’ office and had to answer a lot of questions before they agreed to connect me with him. I had to wait again while they rang his office.

  Sergeant Peter Jacobs was a very good friend. He was short and stock
y with graying brown hair, lively blue eyes, lined, leathery face, and a magnificent sense of humor. Not only was he one of Scotland Yard’s best men, he was also an authority on criminology, holding several degrees. It was in that capacity that I had first met him. One of my books had been based on a real turn-of-the-century crime in Soho, and Peter had helped me with my research. I had dedicated the book to him, and we had remained friends. He liked to sit back in a big leather chair with a glass of port, watching flames dance in the fireplace while he expounded at length on some of the horrendous crimes he had studied. I was always an appreciative audience, often taking notes on what he said.

  Peter found it amusing that anyone of my age and sex should be so fascinated by such gruesome things. Crime was an important reality to him. He studied it, he encountered it every day in his work, whereas I used it merely as a pepper to flavor books that were essentially romantic. Peter loved to tease me about this, and I knew he didn’t take me seriously, even though we were very fond of each other.

  “At last,” I said when he finally picked up the phone.

  “Susan?” he said. “I thought you were in Majorca. My secretary said you were calling from——”

  “I’m visiting my aunt,” I replied. “Peter, I—I need some help. I think I’ve uncovered——”

  “Things are rather tight at the moment,” he said, interrupting me. “A series of robberies in Chelsea, and just this morning a body was found in the Thames, female, well dressed, unidentified. I’m up to my ears in paper work as well, but—this isn’t imperative, is it? I mean, you’re not in any great hurry for your research?”

  “It’s very imperative,” I told him. “Peter, something is——”

  “What is it this time? A whopping bloody axe murder, or just a simple case of arsenic poison?”

  “This isn’t for one of my books,” I said irritably. “Would you please stop interrupting me? Peter, something is going on here at Gordonwood. I think there’s been a murder——”

  “At your aunt’s house?” he inquired pleasantly.