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  When Emmalynn Remembers

  Jennifer Wilde writing as Edwina Marlow

  CHAPTER ONE

  I GOT OFF the bus with a weary sigh and stood on the corner as it vanished into the fog, a huge red monster soon swallowed up by the blue-gray swirls. It was Friday night, and I looked forward to a long, restful weekend. Clive had given me a sheaf of photographs to study, hoping I might select a few I thought good enough for the book. I had been working for Clive just four months now, and already I was a full-fledged assistant. Although I never touched a camera or, Heaven forbid, one of the expensive lights, I brought him coffee and sandwiches, pacified his temperamental models, saw that his supplies were properly stocked, ran errands and, ultimately, did everything necessary to keep Courtney Studios from sprawling into chaos. His New York publishers were pressuring him about the book of photographs now, and for the past two weeks the studio had been a madhouse, Clive scouring the streets of London for unique and unusual shots and his faithful assistant fighting off hordes of creditors who threatened to demolish the place if the bills weren’t promptly paid.

  But this weekend I could rest. Clive was taking a trip down the Thames on a coal barge, hoping to get enough material to complete the photographic essay on London life, and I intended to forget the wild, wonderful confusion of the studio and simply relax. I would pick out a few of the photographs I thought he liked best, but the rest of the time I would spend in luxurious idleness. I would lounge in bed till noon, wash my hair, read a new novel and, if worse came to worse, watch television.

  Billie would be there, of course, but Billie and I never got in each other’s way. We shared the flat in Chelsea with perfect harmony, each respecting the other’s privacy when privacy was the mood of the moment. There would undoubtedly be a slew of gentlemen callers, but Billie would see that they stayed in the living room and demolished as little furniture as possible. Unless there were at least three or four men fighting over her, Billie felt she was a failure as a woman, and her gallants ranged from a member of Parliament to the bus boy at our favorite restaurant.

  After so many years of dreary existence as paid companion to a haughty old dowager, I welcomed the riotous color Clive and Billie brought into my life. There were times, though, when I longed for a less frantic pace, and this weekend was going to be one of those times. As I walked along the wet sidewalk now I reveled in the thought of forty-eight hours of seclusion. It was going to be glorious.

  It was cold and damp tonight, and I pulled my coat collar up around my ears. Although the fog was thick, the neon lights burned brightly, red and blue, gold and green, glowing mistily through the fog and reflecting on the wet sidewalks. The streets were as crowded and noisy as ever, a carnival of sight and sound that never ceased. A crowd of teenagers spilled boisterously into a dance hall across the way. A stout woman in tweeds walked a pair of yapping terriers. I passed a surly blond giant in boots and black leather jacket, his long curls falling in a tangle about his shoulders, his eyes hidden by a pair of dark glasses. A thin-faced brunette in purple miniskirt and orange stockings hurried after him, her high heels tapping angrily on the pavement. A pop band was blaring in the dance hall, people shouted and cheered, and, as always, the roar and screech of traffic was deafening. I was accustomed to this noise and paid very little attention to it. I sometimes wondered how I had ever been able to endure the dim, murky silence of resort hotels out of season and watering places long since deserted by any fashionable clientele.

  I loved London, and I loved my new life. As I stepped into the hall of our apartment building, I had not the slightest inkling that all this color and furor was about to end.

  As I walked towards the stairs, Mrs. Craigston approached me. She was our landlady, a plump, grizzled old woman who wore felt slippers and soiled print dresses. Her flat was on the lower floor, and her door always stood open so that she could observe anyone who stepped into the building. Mrs. Craigston frequently told Billie that she ran a respectable house and would not tolerate all these men swarming up and down the stairs at all hours of the night, but in truth she tolerated everything but unpaid rent. If rent wasn’t paid on the day it was due she became a veritable fury, hounding her victim until he either paid or contemplated murder or suicide or both. Billie and I were always prompt with our rent money and, consequently, could have kept a troop of trained seals in our room without risking anything but a lashing from Mrs. Craigston’s virulent tongue. I rather liked the old creature, but Billie swore she was a retired white slaver who kept a hypodermic in her top desk drawer just in case the apartment house stopped paying enough profit.

  Mrs. Craigston shuffled towards me, her felt slippers flopping on the shabby carpet. Her gray hair was in curlers, and she gripped a sandwich in her hand as though she feared I would snatch it away from her.

  “There’s men in your flat,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yep, funny lookin’ men. Not the usual kind—” She paused to let this comment sink in. “These are wearin’ suits and have haircuts. They come in ’bout an hour ago and asked for Miss Emmalynn Rogers, lookin’ grim and up to no good. One of ’em said he was a doctor—” She paused again to study my waistline for any telling bulk. “And the other was a lawyer. You ain’t—uh—ain’t in any trouble are you?”

  “Not that I know of—”

  “Well, I’m makin’ myself clear here ’n now. I ain’t havin’ any of it, not a bit. It’s bad enough to have them artists ’n undertakers ’n actors stormin’ in to see Miss Billie at all hours, but when doctors and lawyers start comin’ to a perfectly respectable house, I intend to make myself heard. You just remember that—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Craigston,” I said politely.

  “I mean every word of it, Miss Em’lynn. And furthermore, Miss Billie owes me two pounds for that rubber tree plant her actor friend took out last week to hock. He thought I didn’t see ’im creepin’ by with his coat wrapped around it. I saw ’im all right. Why, the pot alone was worth—”

  “I’ll tell her.” I promised.

  I hurried on up the stairs, anxious to avoid one of her interminable tirades. I could smell cooked cabbage and ale, an odor that hung over the place like incense, and I heard a couple on the second landing quarreling. Mrs. Craigston’s was not the last word in elegance, but it was semi-respectable, conveniently located and, most important, all Billie and I could afford. The wallpaper on our landing was hideous, faded pink roses against a light green background, and naked light bulbs burned dimly in branches of tortured brass sconces on either side of our door.

  I could hear voices in the living room as I stepped into the foyer. I took off my coat and hung it on the clothes rack, then paused in front of the murky full length mirror and inspected myself. My long auburn hair was windblown and my cheeks were a little flushed. My lids were shadowed with faint gray smudges, the result of overwork, but the dark blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. I knew very well who the doctor was, but I wondered why on earth a lawyer should be calling with him. I straightened the skirt of my dark green dress, smoothed my hair and stepped into the living room.

  Doctor Peter Clarkson stepped forward to greet me. He was fifty-three, a handsome man with silver hair, a ruddy complexion and the shoulders of a soccer star. He wore a sportscoat of black and gray plaid and florid tie of pink and orange silk. His blue eyes twinkled mischieviously behind his heavy black hornrimmed glasses, and his hand crushed mine as I submitted it to be shaken.

  “You’re looking glorious, Emmalynn,”
he shouted. Dr. Clarkson did not really shout, but his voice was so loud and booming that it always sounded like he was keeping score at a cricket match. “Fine, fine! Much better than last time I saw you. Clive must be keeping you in shape.”

  Clive Courtney was Dr. Clarkson’s nephew, and it was Dr. Clarkson who had introduced me to the photographer and obtained the job for me. I owed a lot to this rough-mannered, robust man, and I felt a great affection for him as he stood back now to examine me more thoroughly.

  “I swear,” he said, “if I were twenty years younger—no, ten!—I’d sweep you off your feet. A raving beauty! If I didn’t know my nephew so well, I’d be worried about you—”

  “There’s no danger,” I said.

  Clive Courtney was well on his way to becoming one of the most famous photographers in London, and he was adorable, dedicated to his work and a charming man, but he was not particularly interested in women, at least not in any way that would jeopardize the virtue of any woman who worked around him. He was as safe as houses, Billie claimed, a little put out that he didn’t try to woo her when she went to pose for him.

  I looked over Dr. Clarkson’s shoulder at the man who stood by the window. He was tall and thin, wearing a severe black suit and a drab gray tie. His face was angular and bony, his eyes an icy blue, and his, thin brown hair was slicked down flat against his skull. His was the kind of face that caused small children to clutch their mothers’ skirts, and I felt a slight chill myself as his cold blue eyes swept over me.

  “May I introduce Albert Lock,” Dr. Clarkson said. “Mr. Lock has been looking for you for some time. He finally came to me and asked if I knew where you could be located. Of course I brought him here.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Lock,” I said, sounding much calmer than I felt. Something about Albert Lock’s manner caused me to bristle, and it was difficult to keep from showing it.

  “Miss Rogers,” he replied, nodding briefly.

  “I suppose you want to know what this is all about?” the doctor said. He shrugged his massive shoulders and frowned a little. “It—it took me a while to decide whether or not this was—best for you, Emmalynn. Mr. Lock is a lawyer, and he has some interesting news, but I’m a doctor and you’re my patient—pardon, were my patient—and I was dubious at first. However, I can assure you I don’t believe this will—harm you. In any way. You’re perfectly capable of handling it.”

  “I’m not an invalid,” I said, rather irritably, “nor am I insane. I am perfectly normal and capable of—”

  “Hold on now,” Dr. Clarkson protested. He grinned. “She has a temper to go with that red hair, Lock. Of course you’re normal, Emmalynn, and no one’s trying to say you’re not. Yours is an unusual case—”

  “Perhaps you should clarify just exactly what her case is,” Lock said in a frigid tone. “My client isn’t quite sure, and I’m not certain that I understand fully myself. If there is any illness—”

  Dr. Clarkson scowled, showing his dislike of the lawyer. “Emmalynn is suffering from amnesia, Mr. Lock. Partial amnesia and, I am sure, temporary amnesia. She had quite a shock the night of—the night it happened. She and Mrs. Stern had quarreled a couple of days before, and Miss Rogers left the house, left the town, in fact, and came to London. Then she began to feel remorseful and sorry that she had left the old woman alone, and she came back. She came back the night of the crime, and she saw—everything.”

  “This wasn’t public knowledge,” Lock said promptly.

  “Emmalynn was found by Officer Stevens of the Brighton police. She was wandering around in a daze. Stevens is a good friend of mine, and I was at my cottage in Brighton for the weekend. He put her under my care. Emmalynn has been my patient ever since.”

  “This amnesia—” Lock began.

  “She remembers nothing of the night of the crime. She has blotted it out—completely, so completely that she remembers nothing whatsoever about Brighton. She might never have been there at all.”

  “But they were there for several months—”

  “True. And those months are a complete blank.”

  Lock looked at me as though he were staring at an open grave. I might have been a raving lunatic from the expression on his face. Dr. Clarkson saw the look and was extremely irritated by it.

  “Emmalynn is a healthy girl, perfectly sound, perfectly sane in every respect. She just doesn’t remember a few months. There are times in the life of every man that he would like to forget—Emmalynn has done that. It is that simple.”

  “Still,” Lock persisted, “I find it hard to believe that there was an actual witness to the crime and it never came out at the inquest. This officer Stevens you mentioned—”

  “Law and medicine seldom see eye to eye,” Clarkson said irritably. “In this one case, however, we have an exception. All parties concerned felt Miss Rogers’ condition was too grave to risk exposing her to any form of questioning. She was in the hospital, under sedation, for two weeks. Everyone who knew Mrs. Stern knew that she had mistreated the girl and that Miss Rogers left Brighton two days before the crime and went to London.”

  “Miss Rogers wasn’t even mentioned in the newspapers,” Lock said. “Can you explain that?”

  “The newspapers weren’t interested in a former paid companion. After all, man, they had a bloody axe murder—one of the goriest in years—and they had the body, the weapon, the murderer. That was enough to keep them occupied for quite some time.”

  I had had enough of being discussed as though I was an invisible third party. I went over to the sideboard and poured a gigantic drink, something I seldom did. The gesture was more defiant than sensible, for I gagged on my first swallow and slammed the glass down noisily.

  “Look,” I said, “I come home after a long, hard day, ready to relax and forget all the troubles of the world, and I find—this. Would someone kindly tell me what this is all about, or shall we continue to speculate on whether I shall or shall not go beserk in Hyde Park and massacre innocent bystanders with a switchblade!”

  Dr. Clarkson grinned at that, and even Albert Lock looked amused. I plopped down on the sofa and suggested that the men might be more comfortable if they sat down, too. Dr. Clarkson sprawled out on the end of the sofa and took out his pipe. Lock sat primly on the edge of the only uncomfortable chair in the room. We stared at each other for a moment. I wanted to start screaming, but I knew such an action would be unwise. Lock would no doubt lunge out the door and go tearing down the stairs in horror. He still looked uneasy, as though I might pull a knife at any moment.

  “Lock has some news for you,” Dr. Clarkson said.

  “Ahem,” Lock said.

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “Ahem,” he cleared his throat again. “This is all very complicated,” he said. “Legally, that is. A question of first will and second will and so forth and so forth and probate court and mental state of author at time will was made—I can explain in detail if you prefer.”

  “Please don’t,” I said, wishing he would suddenly vanish right before my eyes.

  “My client, Gordon Stuart, Mrs. Stern’s younger brother and her only living relative, stood, by rights, to inherit everything from her, and as you probably know, Mrs. Stern was quite wealthy—”

  “Yes, I seem to recall that,” I retorted.

  “Two wills were found. The first did, in fact, leave everything to my client, and the second, which was just this week declared the legitimate will, left everything to him with the exception of the property in Brighton and everything in the house. The latter, Miss Rogers, was left to you. You are now an heiress.”

  “I—I don’t believe it,” I stammered.

  “It’s all quite legitimate. The house, all the furnishings, everything in or on the property belongs to you.”

  “There,” Dr. Clarkson said. “It’s finally out. I thought you’d like to hear it, Emmalynn. How does it feel to be an heiress?”

  “I—you mean she left it to me?”

  “Indeed she d
id,” Lock said. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was extremely unhappy with the situation. He looked at me as though I might have drugged the old woman and forced her to make a new will.

  “But—just a minute,” I said. “You say Gordon Stuart is your client. If that’s so, then what are you doing in my living room?”

  Albert Lock smiled. It was a creepy smile, the kind I fancied a vampire might make before sinking its teeth into someone’s flesh. “Mr. Stuart has a—shall we say sentimental attachment to the house in Brighton. He is quite fond of the place—”

  I shook my head. “Gordon Stuart never gave a hang about anything that had to do with his family, Mr. Lock, and he has never had a sentimental emotion in his life.”

  “You’ve met Mr. Stuart?”

  “Several times.”

  “And you remember him?”

  “Vividly,” I retorted. “I was Mrs. Stern’s companion for seven years, Mr. Lock, and I remember six and a half of those years in minute detail. I remember Gordon Stuart, all right, and I’m beginning to wonder why he sent you to see me. He did send you?”

  “Indeed he did,” Albert Lock said hastily. “Mr. Stuart has authorized me to make you quite a generous offer for the property in Brighton. He’d be pleased to take it off your hands.”

  “I’ll bet he could,” I snapped. “Well, he can rot in Hell!”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said he can rot in Hell. This is—all very sudden, and I’m still not quite sure what it all means, but if Henrietta Stern left me a house in Brighton she must have had a darn good reason for it—”

  “I can assure you the house is yours. A clerk will be calling on you tomorrow with some papers you must sign. Once they have your signature the deed will be turned over to you, to do with as you please. My client will be willing to pay—”

  “He can go hang,” I said, my voice suddenly polite. “If it was left to me, Mr. Gordon Stuart is not going to get his hands on it. And you can tell him that, Mr. Lock. The sooner the better.”