Stranger by the Lake

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  “And Cook ’n I are leaving now, if it’s all the same with you, ma’am. It’s been rainin’ something awful and we want to get back to town before it starts again.”

  “I’m sure that will be satisfactory, Mary,” I replied.

  “Incidentally, them dogs looked pitifully sad out in the rain. I brought ’em in and let ’em stretch out in front of the fire in the kitchen, though Cook like to bust a gut. Fed and brushed ’em myself, though it ain’t really my job. They’re roamin’ around the house somewhere now.”

  “Fine, Mary.”

  “Well, ta ta, then. We’ll be off.”

  It was shortly after four when I got back up to my room. Earl was sitting in front of the door, waiting for me. He gave yips of joy when he saw me coming down the hall. Through the French windows I could see the bleak soggy gray sky and the dark green dripping shrubs and, further away, the black trees that seemed to huddle together around the lake. Thunder rumbled in the distance, like drums rolling, and there were occasional flashes of lightning, brief streaks of silver. I closed the windows and drew the draperies shut and lit three oil lamps. The room was soon brilliant with cozy yellow-gold light.

  “I wonder why I forgot about the pouch,” I said. Earl tilted his head to one side, looking very wise. “I suppose it’s understandable. So much happened after I put it in my hip pocket that it just slipped my mind. Oh, stop looking so smart. You can’t understand a word I’m saying.”

  Earl looked offended and crawled under the bed, head and front paws sticking out, eyes alert with interest as I pulled the pouch out of the hip pocket of the slacks I had worn yesterday. Pushing the brushes and bottles to one side, I spread the piece of paper out on the dressing table and sat down to examine it. It seemed to be some kind of intricate geometrical design, with letters dotting it here and there. The paper was old and stiff, and the ink was violet. Arabella Gordon had had a fondness for violet ink, and there was no doubt in my mind that she had drawn this curious pattern. What was it, and why had it been so carefully preserved in its own leather pouch?

  At the bottom of the page were nine words: PART OF HIS LIFE, WITH us BOTH IN DEATH. They made no sense whatsoever. I pulled the oil lamp nearer and peered down at the paper, my brow creased in puzzlement. I had a feeling that this was something very important, but its significance eluded me. The Victorians had been very fond of anagrams and word games, but this was neither. Dotting the squares and slanting lines of the pattern were several single letters: E, S, W, A, R, R, X, P, I, N, w, G, G. I made individual words from them: SWING, WING, RING, SWAN, SWEAR, RIP, GRIP, and so on, but that only confused me more. Ignoring the letters, I concentrated on the design itself. There was a central square, smaller oblong squares to the left, the whole crisscrossed with diagonal lines that made inverted v’s. I was totally bewildered.

  I must have studied the paper for an hour and a half, utterly frustrated. All the while my excitement mounted. This was important. It was a key. If only I could unravel it.… At first I had the wild idea that it was a map that would lead me to the Gordon manuscripts, but I finally had to discard it. This was no map. It was … it was almost like a blueprint, I thought, but if so, what did those words and letters mean? Thunder rumbled, and rain dripped from the eaves, plopping on the floor of the balcony. Earl crawled out from under the bed and rested his head on my feet, wanting attention. I bent down to scratch his ears, my mind filled with confusion. I had a feeling I was overlooking something obvious, something that should have been perfectly clear the minute I looked at the paper.

  I stared at it again, and suddenly a fog seemed to lift in my mind. I had been so dense! It was perfectly clear. To the left of the large square were two oblong squares: A. G. in one of them, R. G. R. I. P. in the other. Arabella Gordon, Robert Gordon Rest In Peace. S. W., N. W.—south wall, north wall, E.—entrance. In one corner, an X. I was staring at a hand-drawn blueprint of the mausoleum. The diagonal lines were meant to indicate the sloping roof of the tent, and the X … I was weak with excitement. I had discovered the hiding place of the Gordon manuscripts.

  Sir Robert had designed the mausoleum himself. It had been completed a few months before his death, and he had rested there alone for twelve years before his wife joined him. She had burned his papers in a burst of Victorian prudery, but two of the manuscripts had been too personal, too meaningful, too much a part of the man who had composed them. PART OF HIS LIFE, she had written at the bottom of the page, WITH US BOTH IN DEATH.

  Arabella had destroyed the other papers, yet she couldn’t bring herself to destroy these particular manuscripts. She had realized their value, had realized, too, that the world wasn’t ready for them, not the world of crinoline petticoats and stuffy parlors and repressed emotions. She had put them in the mausoleum, leaving behind this clue to their whereabouts, perhaps visualizing some future age in which they would be found and given the fair evaluation they deserved. She had died with her secret, and it had taken all this time for that secret to be discovered.

  It was overwhelming. I could hardly contain my excitement. Reason told me to keep calm, be sensible, but I wasn’t in a sensible mood. I knew I should stay in my room and wait for Paul to come with Constable Clark. The secret would keep a while longer. After everything was resolved, I could go down to the mausoleum and fetch the papers, in daylight, in safety. It was the only reasonable thing to do, but I couldn’t be reasonable at a time like this, I had to see the papers. I couldn’t just sit here and wait, not when I knew the papers were there in the mausoleum, waiting to be found. I would take Earl with me, and I would be very cautious.…

  Slipping the paper back into the pouch, I slid the pouch in my pocket and told Earl to come along quietly. The manuscripts were probably in a secret cache, brickedin. I would need tools, I thought, remembering the toolbox I had seen in the garage. It was bound to contain a hammer, and I could use a screwdriver for a chisel. I crept quietly down the hall. Earl sensed my mood, and he crept along beside me, down on his haunches, finding this a jolly good game. I passed the door of Mildred’s room. An edge of yellow light shone under the door. She was probably inside, reading or brooding about Aunt Agatha’s treatment of her.

  Turning the corner, I moved silently down the main upstairs hall. The windows were wet gray squares, dripping with slippery cobwebs of water and admitting little light. It would soon be night, but there had been a flashlight hanging on a peg in the garage, and I could use that. I moved down the staircase, Earl scooting along ahead, turning to give me conspiratorial glances. The library door was closed. I hesitated in front of it, finally stooping down to peek through the keyhole.

  Craig Stanton was working at his desk, his face lined with concentration, hair tumbling over his forehead. He looked up, almost as if he could sense me watching. He stared at the door with a vacant look and then gave a heavy sigh, frowned and went back to work, a candelabra spilling wavering yellow light over his broad shoulders. Cautioning Earl to be silent, I went to the front door and opened it, shooing him outside, stepping out myself and pulling the door shut behind me.

  Earl barked gleefully and capered around under the portico. I glared at him, and he hastily resumed his stealthy crouching position, deciding the game wasn’t over yet. We moved toward the garage. The air was chilly, laced with dampness, and there were puddles of water. Earl paused by one of the shrubs to perform a most undignified function, looking up guiltily as he joined me in front of the garage. I caught hold of the handle, lifting the heavy door. It swung up with a loud, grating noise. Surely no one could have heard, I thought, stepping into the garage.

  There was an odor of grease and rust and gasoline, and my shoes clattered on the concrete floor as I stepped between the Bentley and the bright red XKE Jaguar. It was very dark, but I could see the toolbox standing in front of the cars, the flashlight hanging over it. I took the flashlight down and switched it on. The battery was weak, and there was only a thin, feeble ray of yellow light, but it was enough. Taking a hammer and a
large screwdriver out of the toolbox, I left the garage, pulling the door down, holding the bottom rim to keep it from squeaking so loudly.

  There was no holding Earl back now. He danced and darted about, elated at the freedom to romp and splash in the puddles of water. He dashed on in back of the house, but I moved a bit more cautiously. It wasn’t likely that anyone could see me, but if Craig Stanton chanced to get up and stroll to the library windows he would be certain to spot me. I kept close to the side of the house, passing the drawing room windows, hesitating, passing the library windows with one quick glance. Craig was still at his desk, intently working with his shoulders hunched over the papers. I hurried on to the lawns in back, relieved now, no longer worried.

  I walked rapidly down the sloping lawns towards the trees. The ground was muddy and my shoes were soon caked with mud. They would be ruined but that was a trivial thing. This whole business had been hell on shoes, I reflected: one pair broken, one pair discarded, this pair turning soggy and limp. Earl scampered around in circles ahead of me, tearing up turfs of wet grass. The sky was so low that it seemed I could reach up and touch it. Thunder made a quiet rumble in the distance, and brief streaks of lightning made occasional silver flashes. A soft violet haze hung in the air as dusk approached and shadows thickened.

  The excitement I had felt earlier hadn’t abated one jot. I still felt it surging through me, urging me on. I was actually on my way to find the Gordon manuscripts. In a short while I would hold them in my hands. It was a staggering thought. Walking along the edge of the trees, I hunted for the path leading down to the lake, finally locating it and moving quickly into the densely shadowed woods. Earl scurried about in the bushes nearby, and a bird cried out shrilly. Limbs made a thick canopy over the path, protecting it from rain, and the ground was hard packed, only slightly damp. On either side the trees were tall dark sentinels, gleaming black and wet in the faint light. I could barely see my way, but I didn’t want to switch on the flashlight just yet. I would need it inside the mausoleum, and the battery was so weak I feared it might give out.

  I could see the lake ahead now. Mists hung low, swirling over the wet black surface of the water, moving like ghosts engaged in a lilting waltz. Water lapped at the shore, wind whistled over the surface, and the sound of whispers filled the air, accompanied by the drip-drip of rain pattering off limbs. I called Earl, but he was nowhere near. I wondered where he had gone. I called again, and there was an answering bark from far away. I heard him crashing through the woods, and suddenly there was silence. He had stopped abruptly. There was one loud bark, then a growl, then silence sharply underlined by the whispers. I heard the growl again, followed by a feeble yip.

  I wasn’t afraid, only bewildered. Nevertheless, I would have felt much better had Earl been beside me instead of roaming through the woods. He had probably seen a rabbit, I thought. Yes, a rabbit, or perhaps a bird. The bark had not alarmed me, but the growl.… I called him a third time, my voice shrill. Night noises rustled in the trees, but there was no sound from the dog. He might have vanished. That curious yip … I couldn’t let my imagination run away with me. There was a perfectly logical explanation for his conduct, yet I was unnerved.

  I peered through the trees. I could see glistening black trunks and a multitude of limbs, the faintest light penetrating. Far away there was movement, a glimmer, something barely visible. My heart was pounding now. I couldn’t prevent it. I squinted, peering through the trees at that movement. It was slick, dark, like … like a black raincoat, like a man in a raincoat moving slowly through the woods. I closed my eyes and opened them again. The moving black glimmer was gone, and I realized that it had been a trick of light and shadow, augmented by an overactive imagination. Earl came prancing nonchalantly down the path. I scolded him harshly, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was to stay by my side and ignore all rabbits. He licked my hand, abject.

  The brief moment of fear had shaken me, shattering my confidence, and I moved on toward the lake with much less assurance than I had felt before. Stepping out of the woods, I walked along the shoreline toward the mausoleum. The mists had already spread damp, wavering tendrils of white over the ground, a thin, shifting veil of white that made it impossible to see five feet ahead of me. A frog croaked. Earl barked, leaping off into the mist, rejoining me a moment later with a frisky swagger.

  I could see the mausoleum ahead now. By some curious accident of wind and atmosphere the mists had parted, leaving a small clearing free of the drifting veils, and the mausoleum stood out, black silk shimmering in the faint light, sides billowing softly, so real, not marble at all. I stood several yards away, strangely hesitant. The tent pole seemed to sway, the black marble ropes growing taut. I shivered for no apparent reason. Earl stood beside me, his silver body rigid, all playfulness gone now. It was almost as though he could sense that this was a place for the dead.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I told him, realizing that I was speaking more to reassure myself than for Earl’s benefit.

  I stood just inside the clearing, the mists making a constantly moving white wall on three sides, the trees forming the other wall, dark trunks solid. Charlie had stood over there, I remembered and wished I hadn’t. He had been watching me. I could almost feel those eyes on me now, and the sensation was upsetting. Charlie was dead … but someone was watching me. One of the tree trunks moved slightly, gleaming, and there was a white oval, a face with a hat brim pulled down over the forehead. The man in the raincoat was watching me … absurd, of course. Earl would have barked had there been anyone nearby. I shook my head, frowning. This wouldn’t do at all. I was too attuned to the atmosphere and far too imaginative for my own good. I stepped over to the mausoleum, putting all sinister fancies aside. Earl hung back, not wanting to come any closer.

  I didn’t blame him. I didn’t particularly relish the idea of entering that bizarre black tent, but I knew I had to. There were dead people inside, but they were dead, moldering in their crypts, and … this line of thought was hardly encouraging. Switching on the flashlight, I directed the weak beam on the entrance. One flap of the tent was lifted slightly and held in place by a black marble rope. The opening was barely two feet wide and not more than five feet high. I could get inside easily enough, but I still hesitated. Tight closed places, particularly tight closed places with dead people inside … was it worth it?

  I admonished myself severely and stepped through the opening, bumping my head on the edge. I muttered something more descriptive than dignified and rubbed my head, directing the feeble beam of light over the walls. The interior was smooth polished brick painted in red and white stripes, carrying out the tent effect, but the paint had peeled and faded and the walls were festooned with large brown moisture stains. To my left were two bronze plaques indicating the resting places of Sir Robert and Arabella, and directly across from them was a small black marble bench. The stench of mildew and moisture and decay was overwhelming, a sharp sour smell that assailed the nostrils with potent force.

  Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and stretched across the corners, swaying in and out as the air stirred, and dust was everywhere. I heard a tiny squeak and a rustling noise and, switching the beam of light in the direction of the sound, saw a fat gray rat scurrying across the floor. I tried not to shudder. The sound of whispers from the lake penetrated inside, and the noise echoed, as though the place were full of invisible beings urgently warning me to leave, to leave, to leave right now. It took great will power not to obey those ghostly instructions. I controlled myself, bracing my shoulders and pressing my mouth in a resolute line. I had come this far. I certainly didn’t intend to give up now.

  Taking out the pouch and removing the paper, I sat down on the bench and studied the intricate blueprint, holding the flashlight over it so that all the light spilled directly down. Arabella had marked everything clearly and distinctly, and the X indicated that the papers would be on the same side as the crypts, in the far corner. I took the flashlight and
studied the spot, running my hands over the brick. I coughed as clouds of ancient dust flurried in the air. The bricks were neatly mortared together, and the wall looked quite solid, but as I leaned forward to study it I noticed that there was a section about four feet up from the floor where the mortar was a slightly different color, more yellow than gray. That was where I would start prying the bricks loose.

  I rested the flashlight on the edge of the bench, the flickering beam directed toward the corner, and, with hammer and screwdriver, started to chip away the mortar. It was hard work. The mortar was old and as hard as rock, cracking away in small particles. The noise of my efforts echoed in the small chamber, sounding frightfully loud. The screwdriver slipped and scratched, the hammer clanged, chips of mortar fell to the floor, and dust swirled in the air. I coughed, squinting my eyes. The thin beam of light seemed to grow weaker and weaker, now no more than a faint suggestion of yellow illumination. After what seemed hours I finally managed to wedge one brick out of place.

  I stuck my hand in the opening. There was nothing but space behind it, and I knew my calculation had been correct. I worked all the more eagerly, scraping away the mortar, prying the bricks loose. A second brick was removed, a third. I had to pause for a moment to catch my breath. Dust was thick in the air. A gust of wind flurried into the chamber through the entrance, blowing a cobweb into my face. I gasped, wiping the sticky strands away with repugnance. The whispers seemed to rise and swell, growing more urgent. I could hear Earl whimpering outside. After a moment I went back to work, forgetting everything else in my zeal. I banged against the wall with the hammer, impatient now, not even bothering to use the screwdriver. Bricks crumbled into pieces and fell to the floor with loud thumps and soon I had knocked away all of them not mortared against solid wall.