Wait for what will come, p.24
Wait for What Will Come, page 24
She expected incredulity. Instead John nodded.
“That was the theory I meant to put to you tomorrow, as a result of my investigation of the parish records. I’ve never had time to look through the older ones, but I felt that this matter was more than a question of purely antiquarian research. Well, you’d be amazed at some of the things I discovered about our oldest and most distinguished families! That particular branch of Tremuans were a wild lot. Bad blood, they used to call it, before scientists told us we mustn’t believe in such things.
“Mr. Martinson, the vicar at that time, was a garrulous old soul, and he recorded a considerable amount of gossip. Nothing definite, you understand; the Tremuans were the leading family, and a clergyman in the eighteenth century held the living at the discretion of his noble patrons. All the same, he dropped certain hints, and I began to see Sir William as quite a different person from the hero of romance tradition had made of him. He was the ringleader of a gang of young blades who tried everything from rape to desecrating the church in order to relieve their boredom. It is quite conceivable that a sensitive, delicate girl would find him loathsome; and equally conceivable that he would enjoy ‘teasing’ her.”
“That was what I felt,” Carla said. “Her loathing of him.”
“Very spooky,” Tim said appreciatively. “The haunted dress. Sounds like a Hardy Boys’ mystery.”
“I cannot accept that,” the vicar said firmly. “I don’t rule out the possibility of an attack of…call it ancestral memory, even clairvoyance. Such things do happen. Carla had been thinking about the girl, brooding on her fate; the dress might act as a catalyst to a sensitive mind like hers. But please let’s not have ghosts. If our theory is correct, we have just solved the family mystery.”
“And Sir William’s horrible fate?” Carla asked. “Can you account for that logically, John?”
“Certainly. He was not really a monster, only a vicious, unimaginative young clod. In his own strange way he loved the girl. He found her that night, but too late; in her attempt to avoid him she went over the cliff. It must have been a horrible shock to him. Searching for her, or her body, he injured himself on the rocks and acquired those strands of seaweed which figure so dramatically in the legend. Belated remorse and guilt affected his mind. Because he could not accept the responsibility of her death, his crazed brain invented demons.”
He looked at the others triumphantly.
“Not bad,” Tim admitted. “Not bad at all.”
“Never, mind all that,” Michael said. “Our chief concern now is to invent a story that will account for Carla’s presence there tonight, without dragging in ancestral memory and clairvoyance and all that rot. What about it, Carla? Did you go for an innocent evening stroll, or were you lured to your doom by a note from the villain?”
“Just a moment,” the vicar said, before Carla could answer. “Lying is a sin, of course, but…. Is it necessary to make anyone a villain? Couldn’t Simon’s death have been an unfortunate accident? I’m thinking of you, Michael. We all know you acted in defense of Carla, but the case will be a cause célèbre, and it may involve you in a great deal of unpleasantness. If—”
“Hold on,” Michael interrupted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, John. You’ve only heard part of the story. There is no way in which Simon’s death could have been an accident, and no way of saving his reputation. He deliberately murdered Alan Fairman to keep him from talking. Fairman and he were partners in the smuggling business—in fact, Simon was the senior partner. He meant to continue the original agreement after a reasonable time had elapsed. Six months, a year—people would have forgotten my rude accusations by then, especially if Carla and I were no longer around to remind them.”
“I can’t believe it,” John exclaimed.
“You find it easier to believe Simon turned homicidal maniac and tried to kill Carla for the fun of it?” Michael inquired. “It was obvious to me from the first that Alan wasn’t the master crook. The police mightn’t see it; they didn’t know the people involved, or the details of the plan to drive Carla away. But you, John—how could you possibly think Alan capable of inventing that scheme? It was so typical of Simon! And he was one of the few people who could have talked Gran into buying it. Not only did she trust him implicitly, but as her medical adviser he was able to distort her moments of confusion and absentmindedness into something really sick.” He turned to Carla. “I thought surely you’d catch on that day at the hospital, when he was relating his highly colored version of what Gran saw before she collapsed. He had read Squire Thomas’s manuscript, of course. A student of local folklore wouldn’t pass over a juicy source like that. He had free access to everything in the house, including the cupboard in the library. When he decided to use the legend to frighten you away, he ripped out of Walter’s genealogy the pages that exploded the myth.”
“You believe Walter had discovered the true story?” John asked, looking slightly crestfallen.
“He had the same source at his disposal that you did, and a much more personal interest in the story,” Michael said.
“Then why didn’t he tell people?” Carla demanded.
“Because nobody really gave a damn,” Michael said. “Who cares about an antique ghost story? Only horror buffs, who would much rather repeat a good yarn than have it explained rationally. I suspect he did tell Simon, the only person in the neighborhood who shared his interest in the subject. It was Simon’s family that was involved, remember—not very creditably. His regard for Simon might have been another reason why Walter didn’t make the story public.”
The vicar nodded. “You are quite right. Walter had completed most of his research when I arrived. I never knew him well. And who could possibly imagine that the old legend would ever take on such importance? I still can’t imagine how Simon did all the things he did. I take it he was responsible for Mrs. Pendennis’s stroke.”
“Indirectly, yes,” Michael said. “We’ll never know precisely what happened that night. Thanks to Simon’s tampering with her mind, Gran is no longer a reliable witness. That’s why she was never in danger from him; he knew quite well she could never testify against him. I think I can guess what he was up to, though. He planned to drag his bag of seaweed across the room and down the hall, toward Carla’s door—”
“Why not simply come in my window?” Carla asked, shivering at the idea.
“That would not have been mysterious and supernatural,” Michael retorted. “Your balcony is accessible to a good climber, but Gran’s window is two floors above the ground. He simply walked into the house, of course; locking up that place is a waste of time, there are too many means of entry. But first he threw a handful of pebbles at my window. When I looked out he treated me to a pretty little tableau—a shadowy figure wearing some sort of weedy-looking wig, slithering around in the shrubbery. Of course I went tearing out to investigate. Then he went upstairs. He must have had a shock himself when Gran woke up. He had been doping her for days, as you recall. That night she didn’t take her pills, or else they failed to work. She saw him. She probably wouldn’t have recognized him, in his disguise, but the mere sight of a man in her room in the middle of the night brought on an attack. He had barely time to get out and down the back stairs before Carla came to the rescue.”
“It all seems so silly,” Carla said. “So childish.”
“It was, rather,” Michael agreed. “But that’s the way his mind worked. I fancy he enjoyed it. If the plan to frighten you didn’t succeed, he could always resort to more drastic methods, as he did tonight. The portrait was his best effect, and yet it was a dead giveaway. I was certain of him after that.”
“Why?”
“Do think logically, if you can,” Michael said rudely. “It was obvious, wasn’t it, that you were under the influence of some drug that night? It couldn’t have been in your food or drink; with that method there was no way of predicting when it would take effect. So I thought to myself, what if the portrait had been moved in order to maneuver you into a position where you would be vulnerable to some kind of gas? It sounds like Fu Manchu, but doctors do have access to anesthetic gases, you know—just as they have access to drugs like heroin. He had to open the window afterwards so the stuff would dissipate.”
“It’s the most complicated thing I ever heard of,” Carla protested.
“He had a complicated mind. There was another reason for moving the portrait to that dark corner. You didn’t get a good look at it. What you saw, of course, was a mirror. It reflected your own face, and it’s not surprising that your expression was horror-stricken. He could remove the mirror with a flick of the wrist, it was simply wedged in under the frame. It wouldn’t have taken him sixty seconds to set the thing up. He simply waited on the iron staircase until you left the room, which you were bound to do at some point during the evening.”
No one spoke. Carla was struggling to assimilate the mass of information. The vicar looked stunned.
“I’ve known Simon for years, you know,” Michael went on. “Long enough to realize that under his affable smiling facade he was a mean bastard with a lot of emotional problems. He was my bête noire when I was growing up. He outweighed me by several stone and he used to beat the daylights out of me every time we met. But I couldn’t seem to get any evidence against him. None of you would have believed me if I had accused him without evidence; I was a suspicious character myself. I hoped to persuade Alan to accuse him, but he got here in time to save himself. I didn’t think he’d given it up, though, and I’ve been worried sick about Carla. When she told us Simon had proposed to her, I thought, marvelous, he’s decided to try another method of getting the house. At least she’ll be safe while he does his courting, and if she is fool enough to accept him, I’ll think of something to stop her before she actually marries him.”
Carla had forgotten there was anyone else in the room.
“What would you have done to stop me?” she asked.
“Killed him, if I had to.”
“I was going to give you the house.”
“You might have said so. Simon would have turned his attentions to me if I had been the owner.”
“I couldn’t imagine why you wanted it. All that stuff about a hotel was singularly unconvincing.”
“It was true, though.”
“But your career—”
Tim, whose head had been swinging back and forth following the conversation, like a spectator at a tennis match, now interrupted.
“I told you you were a jerk not to tell her the truth.” He turned to Carla. “He’s got a trick shoulder. Threw it out of whack last year playing soccer with the boys. It’s never been right since.”
“So that’s why….”
Michael shrugged.
“A dancer’s legs aren’t the only parts of his anatomy that count. Imagine me dropping the prima ballerina when she leaps into my arms. It wouldn’t do.”
“Then you really do want to turn the place into an inn?”
“Why not? It might be fun.”
“Yes,” Carla murmured. “It might…. Tim, who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Exactly who I said.” Tim looked hurt. “Mike and I have had this deal in mind for months. We met in London last year while I was seeing the world…. I did lie a little, Carla. I’m not quite as broke, or as new to the Old World, as I said. I majored in hotel management at college, and when I inherited a little money from an uncle of mine, I started looking for a good investment. Mike told me about this place. We figured we could get it cheap. The only thing I didn’t figure on was getting involved in a real-life thriller. Mike sent me an SOS after he started to suspect that someone was out to get the girl of his dreams—”
“That’s enough of that,” Michael interrupted. “Is the deal still on?”
“Sure. We’ll turn the place into a combination Haunted House and posh hotel. It can’t miss.”
“But my dear friends!” The vicar waved his arms helplessly. “All these plans…. I’m afraid we have a troubled period before us. Michael, how did Simon Tremuan die?”
“I didn’t kill him. The sergeant knows that; that’s why I’m here among my friends and admirers instead of being charged.”
“How did he die?” the vicar repeated.
“His neck was broken,” Michael said reluctantly. “And there were other injuries….” He turned to Carla. “I heard you scream. I had realized by then that you weren’t in the house, and I was getting frantic. I ran out into the garden, and then you yelled again. When I arrived on the scene…. This is the part you won’t believe.”
“I already don’t believe it,” Carla gasped ungrammatically. “I thought you’d gone to Penzance with Tim. Then, when I saw you climb over the cliff—”
“But I didn’t. I came from the house. I found you on the ground, out cold. Simon was lying on his face next to one of the fallen stones. I had a torch with me. I didn’t turn it on later because I didn’t want you to see…. A man might have inflicted those injuries. A karate black belt. Maybe.”
There was a brief, horrified silence. Then Michael said thoughtfully, “I should have heaved him over the cliff, I guess. I wasn’t thinking clearly. But the sergeant agreed with me that it was probably a professional killer who did the job—a hit man hired by Simon’s criminal colleagues, perhaps because he was threatening to blackmail them. Lucky for me, though, that I haven’t any fresh bruises. I’d take it as a favor, Carla, if you wouldn’t put any nasty suspicions into the good sergeant’s mind. I don’t know what you saw, but it wasn’t me.”
“I must get over these crazy ideas of mine,” Carla said slowly. “I couldn’t have seen anyone; it was too dark. I heard the sounds of a fight. And, being a poor timid female, I fainted dead away.”
“The police will probably buy that,” Michael said.
“So will I,” said Tim. “I don’t want to know anything else. That’s a nice story, Carla. Stick to it.”
They all looked at the vicar.
“It seems clear-cut to me,” he said calmly. “What else could have happened? If I must, I’d rather accept a highly unlikely and hypothetical—er—hit man, than an even less likely…. Well. It has been a trying evening, and Carla should get to bed. Good night, all of you. I’ll see myself out.”
After he had gone, Tim effaced himself with loud significant clearings of his throat and glances at Michael. Carla got up, wincing as she put her weight on her sore feet, and hobbled to the window.
Darkness and stars, nothing more. She felt, rather than heard, Michael come up behind her with his light dancer’s step.
“You’re wondering what’s out there, aren’t you?” he said softly.
“We’ll have to talk about it someday,” Carla said. “Even Walter’s will…. What prompted him to express it in such a way that I was the only one who qualified?”
“It can all be explained rationally, Carla. Coincidence…. Even that damned jingle Simon faked and inserted in the diary.”
“What about it?”
“I do believe you’re only semiliterate. He’s an American poet, too. Edwin Arlington Robinson. ‘Come to the western gate, Luke Havergal…. And in the twilight wait for what will come.’”
“I don’t care how much of it was faked,” Carla said. “There are still things…. But you don’t have to rationalize everything in order to make me feel better, Michael. I’m not afraid. Simon was right after all. It’s a Luck, not a Bane.”
Michael’s arms went around her.
“Shall we try it, then? It’s a crazy scheme, Carla; almost as crazy as you are, my poor superstitious darling.”
Carla thought about it. They would have to work their fingers to the bone, all of them, and the scheme might not work. They were young and inexperienced. All the odds were against them.
Practical considerations on one side of the scale. On the other….
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, please. Let’s try it.”
About the Author
ELIZABETH PETERS (writing as BARBARA MICHAELS) was born and brought up in Illinois and earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the University of Chicago’s famed Oriental Institute. Peters was named Grand Master at the inaugural Anthony Awards in 1986, Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America at the Edgar® Awards in 1998, and given the Lifetime Achievement Award at Malice Domestic in 2003. She lives in an historic farmhouse in western Maryland. You can visit her website at www.mpmbooks.com.
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Barbara Michaels
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Books by Barbara Michaels
Other Worlds*
The Dancing Floor*
Stitches in Time*
Houses of Stone
Vanish with the Rose
Into the Darkness
Smoke and Mirrors*
Search the Shadows*
