When Emmalynn Remembers Page 16

  I moved on and on, my heart pounding, my lungs threatening to burst. I was lost in the forest of sand dunes, some of them rising up over my head and others mere lumps of earth waist high. I ran away from the sound of the sea. I turned. I was going back towards the beach. I paused, confused, my sense of direction shattered by the panic. I heard him. He was moving noisily towards me, but the noise swelled and echoed and I could not tell which way it was coming from. I heard feet crunching on sand. I heard panting. I heard a splintering crash as he stepped on a bit of driftwood. The noises came from all sides, now near, now far. They ceased. There was a second of silence underlined by the wash of sea over shingles, a sound much like labored breathing.

  “Emmalynn. I want you.”

  The voice was hoarse. I thought I recognized it, but I could not be sure.

  “Don’t run, Emmalynn. It’s me—”

  I stood very still in the shadows of a towering sand dune. I took off my shoes. I removed my stockings. I made as little noise as possible. The sand was cold and gritty to my bare feet, but I found I could move without noise. That was a definite advantage. I crept around the dune. In front of me was a small clearing, the sand silver bright. I darted across it. I knew he must have seen me. I could hear him thundering after me. I circled around the clearing, winding behind huge humps, and finally I could go no longer. My heart felt as though it were about to explode.

  I dropped to the ground in the shadows of a dune, behind a large piece of driftwood. I crouched against the earth, breathing rapidly, peering out through a branch of the wood. I knew it would be practically impossible for him to see me. I heard him quite near. He stumbled against a mound, slid down, cursed. He couldn’t be ten yards away. The moonlight streamed down, gilding the tops of the dunes with a silvery green glow and providing dense shadows below. The sea sounded far away, sounded more than ever like heavy breathing. I managed to catch my breath, control it, breathe evenly and quietly. He stepped around a dune.

  He was silhouetted against the moonlight, black against silver. I saw only the tall dark shape and the grotesque shadow that loomed away from it, moving when he moved. He stood there only an instant. He smashed his fist in the palm of his hand. He cursed again, a gutteral noise deep in his throat. He moved away. I could hear his footsteps plodding on the ground. He moved off in another direction, away from me. He called my name again. I lay flat on the ground, my lower lip between my teeth. Finally there was no noise but the wind in the grass and the scratching sound made by a small sand creature disturbed by all this activitiy in his domain.

  Five minutes passed, ten, perhaps more. My whole body felt numb. I was freezing there on the damp earth. I stood up cautiously. I couldn’t be sure he was gone. Perhaps he was resting, too. Perhaps he was waiting for me to come out of hiding. I listened. There were no disturbing noises. I walked slowly around the sand dune and began moving away from the sea. If I went back to the beach, he would see me. Here, at least, there were shadows to help conceal my progress. The sand dunes began to thin out, spread further and further apart. The land sloped down. I walked across a field, tall grass waving knee-high. There was a small ravine, and beyond it dark woods. Fireflies played in the woods, tiny points of yellow light darting here and there among the trees.

  I stepped to the edge of the ravine. The ground sloped down gently for perhaps ten feet to where a dry river bed twisted and turned. On the other side there were two or three acres of grassy field, and then the woods began. The woods seemed to be full of activity. I heard a buzzing sound. I suddenly realized that the darting lights were not fireflies at all. They were lanterns, seen from afar. The buzzing sound was made by many voices, muffled by the thickness of trees and shrubs. It must be the search party, I thought. I started down the ravine, my bare feet tormented by tiny rocks and bits of shell.

  “Emmalynn—wait—”

  The voice came from behind me. He was coming across the field towards me. I stumbled down the ravine, and I saw her. She was on her stomach, her head turned to one side, her arms spread out. I kneeled beside her. I lifted her cold little body in my arms, ran my hand over her face. She was breathing jerkily. There was a cut on the side of her face, and one arm did not hang right. Her eyes opened and she stared at me. Her lips moved. I bent my head down to catch the words.

  “He tried to get me,” the child whispered hoarsely. “I ran away. I hid—in the hut. He found me. He hit me—hard. He hurt my arm. I woke up. I ran—I ran. I fell down here—” And then the lips grew still and the eyes closed.

  I called out, again and again. The lights in the woods began to move slowly towards the ravine. The buzzing sound increased, and I could make out individual words now: A woman. Over there. Beyond the field. In the ravine. What? The child. She’s found her. I held Betty in my arms, her tiny body limp against mine. I stroked her hair. I prayed she would be all right.

  Rocks slid down the slope of ground. I looked up. He was standing at the edge of the ravine, his hands on his hips, staring down at me. Across the ravine, men were breaking out of the woods and running over the field. I could hear their footsteps. George Reed came cautiously down the slope. His thick brown hair fell straight across one brow. His horn-rimmed glasses glittered. The lines of his Slavic face showed deep concern. He heaved his heavy shoulders and stood over me.

  “You ran,” he said, his voice low. “You ran from me.”

  “She’s alive,” I whispered. “She’s alive! That’s all that matters.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BILLIE AND I were silent during the drive back to the house. It seemed ages had passed since Sean first knocked on the front door, but it was just now ten o’clock. So much had happened in such a short time. Betty was in the hospital now, under the care of a Doctor Martin. He had set her broken arm and given her sedatives and informed the police that it would be at least two days before she would be able to answer their questions. She hadn’t regained consciousness after speaking to me, and we had no way of knowing who was responsible for her disappearance and subsequent injuries. Doctor Martin assured us that, with the exception of her arm being in a cast, Betty would soon be back to normal. I doubted seriously that she would mind the cast. She would be the proper little heroine among her school chums. The cast would merely add an extra element of glamor to that role, and all the attention she had longed for would be hers in abundance.

  Widow Murphy was at the hospital, too, sitting at her daughter’s bedside, where she would remain for the rest of the night. Neighbors had come to look after Sean, and there had been nothing left that Billie and I could do to help. Officer Stevens had not liked the idea of our going back to the house, but I had assured him that Doctor Clarkson would be there soon, if he wasn’t there already, waiting for us.

  The police had questioned George Reed thoroughly. He was able to explain his actions quite logically. He had been walking back to his cottage, he claimed, and he had seen me alone on the beach. He had wanted to speak to me. He called my name. I ran. He came after me, but he did not “chase” me. I had to admit that I had run without knowing who was calling me, that he had called out several times identifying himself and that I hadn’t recognized the voice. The police weren’t entirely satisfied with Reed’s story, but they had no way of disproving it. He had been vague and evasive when they asked what he wanted to speak to me about, merely telling them that it was “a personal matter.” As we left the hospital I looked around for Reed, but he had evidently already gone back to his cottage. I wondered what that “personal matter” was.

  The tires hummed over the road. The motor coughed and spluttered. The whole car shook as I turned down the poorly paved road that led through the dense wooded area and on to the house. The headlights glowed like two pale yellow spears through the mist that danced and swirled across the road. We circled out of the woods and could see the house ahead, a gaunt, forbidding relic towering out of the mist. Dr. Clarkson’s car was not out front. I had hoped he would be waiting for us. I drove Clive’
s car into the garage and parked it. Neither Billie nor I said a word as we walked around the house and went inside. We had left an oil lamp burning in the front hall and its golden glow seemed to lick the dark walls and heighten the long shadows the ponderous furniture cast across the floor.

  The house was silent and tomb-like. All the rest of it was shrouded in darkness, and it seemed to be waiting for us. The doors in the hall opened into dark, dusty rooms thronging with shadows, and the staircase spiraled up like a live thing arrested in some act of evil. It was easy to imagine whispering voices and stealthy footsteps. I could tell Billie felt the way I did. Her face was pale, and there were dark smudges under her eyes. Her lips were turned down slightly at the corners, but her chin was resolute. I sighed deeply.

  “Doctor Clarkson should be here soon,” I said.

  “I know. I wish I were very, very brave.”

  “We have the gun. It’s here in my purse.”

  “Small comfort,” she replied, striving for lightness. “This really is madness, you know, Em.”

  “It’s almost over,” I assured her.

  “Think so?”

  I nodded. She rested her hands on her hips and shook her head.

  “And to think I could have had a week in Majorca, posing for Punch. I suppose this is more interesting, but in the future I intend to do a lot of reading about murder and stay miles away from the real thing. You look ghastly, Em. I suggest a hot bath. Under the circumstances, a bath will suffice, un-hot though it must be.”

  She smiled, a brave smile. Both of us wanted to get far away from the house, but neither of us were going to give way to nerves. Billie would be Billie, blithe though shaken, and I would manage somehow to maintain at least a surface calm.

  “I’m going to light lots of lamps and candles,” Billie told me, “and while you’re bathing I’ll brew some tea. Doctor Clarkson will appreciate a cup when he gets here. That’ll be right away. I hope.”

  The bath was not a comfortable one. The old green marble tub was large and roomy, and the soap and water were wonderful. I squeezed the sponge and let streams of water pour over my shoulders, and I experienced a peculiarly sensual satisfaction as I lathered my legs with soapy foam, but all the while I kept listening for sinister footsteps. I kept glancing at the doorknob to see that it did not turn. A single oil lamp, perched on the edge of the sink, cast flickering black shadows over the dark green walls, the light reflecting weirdly in all the tarnished brass fixtures. I kept remembering that particularly gruesome scene in Psycho, and it was with some relief that I stepped out of the tub and wrapped myself with a gigantic white towel.

  I put on a white turtle neck sweater and a short brown skirt, lavishly pleated. I slid my feet into a pair of brown sandals and sat down in front of the mirror to brush my hair. I brushed it vigorously, bringing out the deep copper highlights, and I found it a very soothing, normal occupation. Everything will go well, I told myself. Everything will go as planned. Doctor Clarkson will come—he may be downstairs already—and nothing will go wrong, as long as I remain calm. I put down the brush and stared at myself in the mirror. The eyes seemed too large, too dark, and the skin seemed to be stretched too tightly over the cheekbones, but there were no signs of hysteria. I was beginning to feel better. Bathing, dressing, brushing my hair: these simple, ordinary actions helped reestablish my equilibrium and drive the nervous fancies away.

  I took an oil lamp and walked out into the darkness of the upper hall. It was cold. The wind coming through the opened windows whisked along the walls with a whispering sound, and the curtains billowed and grew limp and billowed again. The old floor groaned as I walked over it, but I did not hesitate. I started down the staircase. Halfway down there was a large rubber tree plant in a black pot. I almost dropped the lamp when one of the dead leaves brushed against my cheek. Each step had its own peculiar sound, dull, shriek, creak, groan, and the noises echoed up in the well of silence. I ignored them all. No one was following me. No one was leaning over the railing above, watching me as I descended. I was rather pleased with my own calm as I stepped into the library.

  Billie had lighted all the red glass lamps, and they glowed dimly from every part of the room, illuminating the walls of books, revealing the nest of shadows behind the overstuffed chair in one corner. Billie was curled up on the sofa a book in her lap, a curious expression on her face. A squat brown tea pot set on the table in front of her, fragrant steam curling from its spout, and there was a platter of small cakes beside it. Billie sat up and put the book aside as I came in. There was a tiny crease on her brow, and her eyes looked dark and puzzled. I could tell that something was bothering her.

  “Doctor Clarkson hasn’t arrived yet?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” she replied vaguely. “Em—”

  “Yes?”

  “This book—”

  “What is it?”

  “The diary. Her diary. I came up and got it while you were bathing. I’ve just read it.”

  “Already?”

  “It isn’t long. It’s—going to surprise you, Em.”

  “Will it?”

  She nodded slowly. “I—couldn’t believe it at first. Too improbable! And then I read on—and there’s no doubt.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ll see. Em, I know who did it.”

  “Who?”

  “She doesn’t call him by name, but it’s perfectly clear. Oh, there’s a letter too. Very puzzling. I was trying to figure it out when you came in.”

  “A letter?”

  “It was tucked between the pages of the book. It’s very old, yellowing. Here. See if you can make anything of it.”

  She handed me the letter. It was creased and soiled, crumbling at the edges. I sat down in the large chair and studied the letter in the glow of one of the lamps. It was dated 1938 and came from Devon. The handwriting was large and scrawling, clearly that of an uneducated person, and the ink had faded to a dingy brown. I read it twice:

  Mrs. Stern,

  We’ll do just like you say, I’m sure, and no questions asked, but Herb and me are a bit worried if it’s exactly proper. We’re grateful to you, sure, as you’ve enabled us to experience a joy the Good Lord in his wisdom didn’t see fit for us to know. The money you sent is a blessing. Herb will be able to make the farm a real farm now.

  But is it honest? Sure we’re grateful and understand your position and know why you want it this way and thank the Lord you didn’t choose the solution that a great many fine ladies choose if I’m to believe the things I hear and read in the papers.

  But is it fair to all concerned?

  I don’t intend to bother you any more, and the money was a blessing and you don’t have to send any more unless you feel like it. I want you to know Herb and I don’t intend to let on to anyone and you’re in no danger that way, but I can’t live a lie and I intend to be honest with those near and dear, already near and dear. That’s best. Wishing you luck.

  Enda Hodges

  Billie had poured tea for both of us. I put the letter aside and took my cup. I sipped the tea, thinking about what I had just read. There was something about it that struck a responsive cord inside me, something that furnished an answer to a question that had been worrying me for quite some time, but it was all vague and confused in my mind, swimming near the surface but remaining just out of reach. At the moment I couldn’t even think what it was the letter supplied an answer for.

  “Does it mean anything to you?” Billie asked.

  “I’m not sure. It seems to be telling me something. Something is ringing in the back of my mind, but I can’t say just what it is.”

  “The woman keeps mentioning money. It would seem Henrietta had given the Hodges a lot of money—enough to re-finance a farm, anyway. From what you’ve told me about her, I wouldn’t imagine charity was one of Henrietta’s strong points.”

  “It wasn’t. She was extremely tight.”

  “Perhaps they had been blackmailing he
r. The woman says she didn’t intend to ‘bother’ her any more and that Henrietta didn’t ‘have’ to send more money.” Billie frowned, her head held a little to one side. “I believe the letter is important, or why would she have saved it? Why would it have been stuck between the pages of the book unless it had some connection?”

  “I suppose I’d better read the dairy—”

  Billie threw up her hand, cutting me off. She was very still, listening. I listened, too, and I thought I heard a faint rumbling noise, then a muffled bang. The noises were both very quiet, more a matter of vibration than actual sound. Billie’s face was pale, and I gripped the edge of the chair, waiting. I watched the ornate clock on the top of the mantel. The second hand moved slowly, jerkily. A minute passed, and it seemed more like ten. I watched the slender black hand traverse the face two more times and then heard Billie sigh. She stared at me with enormous eyes.

  “Did I imagine that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It sounded like a car.”

  “I thought so, too. I thought it might be Doctor Clarkson coming, but he’d have already knocked on the door by now.”

  “We’re both on edge,” I said. “It was probably nothing.”

  “Probably,” she replied, clearly not convinced.

  “Let me see the diary,” I said.

  She handed me the limp red volume and began to prowl around the room, examining titles of books in the dim light, touching things, moving restlessly from place to place. She was eager to discuss something with me and couldn’t do it until I had studied the diary. I opened the book and began to read. The entries followed no orderly system. None of them were dated, and it was frequently difficult to tell if Henrietta were writing about the past or the present. Seeing that brisk, flamboyant handwriting disturbed me at first, for it was charged with the personality of the woman who had written it. It was almost as though Henrietta were talking to me. I could hear her crisp, cracking voice as I read.