When Emmalynn Remembers Page 18

  “I won’t leave you, Em.”

  “Don’t argue, Billie. Please.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get Clive’s car and bring it around here and try to get the doctor in it and—”

  “You’ll need help for that,” she protested, interrupting me.

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Em, he’s in there. You can’t—”

  “Billie, please. Go. Get help. Send them. Quickly.”

  She searched my face I don’t know what she saw there. She started to say something and then checked herself. She touched my arm and started towards the beach, moving lightly, quickly, soon diasppearing into the shadows. I stepped over to the car and switched off the headlights. The yellow wands vanished abrutly. I didn’t want the lights on me as I walked around the house and down the drive. The night noises returned. I heard a cricket under the steps, heard the wind rustling the grass on the beach and the sea slip softly over the shingles.

  I braced myself, trying to summon the courage I knew I would need. He was there, and they had failed me. Someone will always be watching after you, George had promised. He had been in the house earlier. I knew that as soon as Billie told me she found cigarette butts and the magazine article about his father, but where was he now? Where was Officer Stevens, and where were the men who were supposed to be watching the house? It will be a perfect trap, George said. Yes, and I would be the bait with my pretended amnesia. The trap was set, a perfect trap, but who was caught? I held the gun gripped tightly in my hand and told myself to stop thinking. Now I must get the car and get the doctor away from this place.

  I walked across the lawn and around the front of the house. I did not have my purse, but I knew Clive kept an extra ignition key tucked under the floormat. I would drive away, and nothing would happen. George would come, and the police, and they would capture their criminal and it would all be over. My sandals scraped loudly on the drive. The noise unnerved me. The carriage house was straight ahead, the door yawning open, a black hole. Clouds floated across the moon and shadows drifted across the ground, black and silver and gray. The gravel crunched. My heart pounded.

  My God, my God, I thought. What am I doing here? Why did I let them talk me into it? I must have been out of my mind when I said I’d help them do this.…

  The idea had seemed preposterous at first. I told George that. I said I couldn’t possibly pretend to have amnesia. I couldn’t fool anyone. George was Doctor Clarkson’s protégé … Doctor Clarkson helped send him to medical school, and he would help with this, too. So would Officer Stevens, Burt Reed’s drinking buddy and lifetime friend who didn’t believe for a minute that old Reed had murdered Henrietta. The three of them worked out all the details. Officer Stevens knew about the will and knew I would inherit the house and have a logical reason for coming back. Doctor Clarkson brought me books on amnesia and discussed them with me. George saw to it that everyone knew I had “witnessed” the crime and been shocked into amnesia. It was all smooth, all simple. Although George had come to London several times, we had seen each other in secrecy, and none of my friends knew of my engagement, not even Billie, nor had I ever talked of Henrietta or the months in Brighton.

  I had been in London the night Henrietta was murdered. When they told me about it I was desolate, but there was nothing I could do. I didn’t go to her funeral. I sent her favorite roses and grieved in my own way, and this fit in perfectly with the plan, for if I had appeared at the funeral when I was supposed to have been “in the hospital,” the whole fabric of the deception would have fallen through. I wanted to help. They were all three convinced of Burt Reed’s innocence, but the case had been closed, and the only way they could prove he didn’t do it was to find out who did. I agreed to help, because I loved George, because I felt I owed it to Henrietta.

  At the last minute I tried to back down. I didn’t have the courage to go through with it. I couldn’t come to the house alone and stay here, not for George not for Henrietta, not for anyone, and then Billie said she wanted to come with me. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t expose her to danger, too. But there would be no danger, they insisted. Someone would be there watching, waiting for the killer to show himself. Billie mustn’t know anything about it, because she might say something, accidently of course, but nevertheless she might let on. We couldn’t risk that. She was coming to help find a killer.

  We came. The trap was set.

  I almost gave it away when Nelson came running across the lawn and put his head in my lap, and George overplayed terribly, first for Billie’s benefit, later for Boyd Devlon. And later on, in the kitchen, I entirely forgot my role and started preparing dinner with all the assurance of one completely familiar with the room and its cabinets and drawers. Boyd noticed that, and I covered up as well as I could, saying I had explored the room earlier. It had been hard from the very first, and I had to pretend even to myself that everything, so deeply felt, so well remembered, was strange and new.

  Now there was no need for pretense. Now I knew who had murdered Henrietta. I moved slowly towards the carriage house, tense, terrified, holding the gun tightly in my hand.

  I could see Clive’s car in the darkness of the garage. Just a few more yards. Keep calm. Stay cool. Don’t break, not now, not when everything is almost over. Get the car. Drive it around front. Help the doctor. Be very brave. I moved towards that nest of darkness, and when I was almost at the great open door the shadows seemed to melt and Boyd Devlon moved out of them, stepping quietly out onto the drive and blocking my way. My heart leaped. My throat went dry.

  He didn’t say anything. He stood there with his hands resting lightly on his thighs, a curious smile on his wide lips. His hair spilled over his forehead in unruly waves. His eyes were full of mockery. I stopped, three yards away from him. I closed my eyes. I whispered a silent prayer. I tried with all my might to force back the hysteria that rose up in panic-stricken waves to engulf me. I managed to maintain a shaky control, and I held the gun out with trembling hand and stared at him over the short black barrel.

  “Are you going to shoot me?” he inquired casually.

  “If I have to,” I said.

  “Why should you want to do a thing like that?”

  “You know very well.”

  “Tell me,” he said, still smiling.

  “You murdered Henrietta.”

  “Come now, Emmalynn—”

  “It’s all in her diary, Boyd. Everything.”

  “Diary?” He looked bewildered.

  “I know who you are. I know why you came here. I know why you stayed on even after you’d killed her and framed Burt Reed.”

  “And why did I?” He asked quietly.

  “You wanted the jewels. You knew she had them hidden somewhere in the house, but you couldn’t find them. Gordon Stuart wanted them, too, but he didn’t want them enough to kill for them. I was certain he’d done it. He was capable of such a crime, and he had a strong motive, but not as strong as yours.”

  The smile was still flickering on his lips, but I could see that he was growing uneasy, restless. He dug the toe of his shoe in the gravel. His strong hands curled into fists, and he lowered his eyelids, staring at me through narrow slits.

  “You murdered your mother,” I said.

  “Did I?”

  “Don’t try to deny it, Boyd.”

  “I see you’ve regained your memory,” he said.

  “I never lost it.”

  He nodded his head briefly. “I see. Oh yes, I see now. I knew you were carrying on with Reed, but I thought—I really believed—you’d forgotten it.”

  I made no comment. I held the gun firmly.

  “When I saw you had amnesia, I thought I would get you to throw away everything else and join forces with me. I thought I could convince you we had been lovers. But you wouldn’t buy that. You knew there’d never been anything between us, and you let me go on making a fool of myself. There could have been something though, back th
en—”

  “I was barely aware of your existence,” I said.

  “True. You were too wrapped up in George Reed to notice anything. I stayed on here because I assumed you knew where the jewels were, would come back for them. I would bide my time. You would come. You would get the jewels, and I would take them from you. The amnesia bit threw me.”

  “It was intended to,” I replied.

  “I knew I would have to kill you, Emmalynn. As soon as you began to remember, as soon as I’d forced you to show me the hiding place.” His eyes grew cloudy, and a deep frown creased his brow. “She was a sly old bitch. She knew I was after the jewels and she kept hiding them in different spots to confuse me. After I killed her I thought for sure I’d find them. I’ve searched every room in this house, over and over again. I knew they were here.”

  “Last night,” I said. “You were in her room.”

  “You almost caught me. I was just coming out when you stepped into the hall and went to her room. I hung around, thinking maybe you’d remembered and would find the jewels, even though I’d just gone through the room with a knife, looking everywhere. You didn’t even know about the jewels.”

  “Not until today,” I told him.

  “You came here to trap me.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And I have,” I added, pointing the gun at his chest. I was in complete control of myself now. I had the gun, and I knew I could use it, would use it if necessary. The corners of his lips curled up, and gave a soft chuckle, not at all intimidated by the short black instrument in my hand.

  “So you know,” he said.

  “I know. Everything.”

  “I never knew who my father was,” he said. “I wonder if she did? She didn’t have the guts to abort me, so she went to Switzerland and gave birth to me, and then left me in Devon with a former maid. They told me all about her. She sent money every now and then, occasionally a Christmas gift, and she even financed my college education, what there was of it, but she would have nothing else to do with me. I knocked around the world, a bastard in every sense of the word, and I vowed that someday I’d get what was rightfully mine. I kept track of my mother, and when she came here I followed her. She was very generous. She gave me a job. She let me put on a uniform and drive her around. She let me sleep over the garage, and sometimes she even gave me a few extra dollars when I wanted to go to town. Oh yes, she was very generous.”

  He paused, his face a mask of hatred. There was nothing handsome about Boyd Devlon now. He was like an animal, tense and vicious, holding back, restraining the hot animal rage erupting inside of him. He drove his fist into the palm of his hand. He heaved his shoulders. He took a deep breath and relaxed and stared at me with a controlled, level gaze.

  “I killed her,” he said. “I warned her I would. I told her I’d do it if she didn’t at least give me enough to get out of the country and make a new start somewhere. She laughed at me. Mocked me. I stole Reed’s axe. I waited until dark and knocked on the door, and when she opened it I let her get a good look at me, a good look at the axe, and then I did it. I hid the axe behind Reed’s place and went to Brighton and drank with my buddies, and later I found her body and phoned the police and Reed was arrested. He died in jail and the case was dropped and there were legal difficulties and I stayed on here as caretaker, waiting for you.”

  He frowned. “That damn kid hung around a lot. I chased her away. She was a nosy little thing, and once when I caught her she made a face at me and said she knew something I didn’t know and hinted about the murder, and then this afternoon when I was waiting for you at the store she went up to Gordon Stuart and showed him a wooden dog and said Reed had given it to her and he was supposed to be a murderer but she knew for sure he wasn’t. So I brought you back here and left again immediately. I saw her on a pier talking with George Reed. He left. I waited. She started walking along the beach. I followed her. I called her. She ran. I trapped her in a hut and killed her.”

  “You didn’t,” I said. “You hit her. You merely knocked her unconscious. She’s alive, in the hospital.”

  He looked stunned.

  “She’ll talk,” I told him. “The doctor says she’ll be able to talk in two days.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “By then I’ll be long gone.”

  “No, Boyd.”

  “Who’s to stop me?”

  “You seem to have forgotten about this gun.”

  “No,” he said. “I haven’t. I’m very thoughtful, Emmalynn, and very careful. When you and your friend left the kitchen I came back in and unloaded the gun.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Try it,” he said.

  I remembered then that I had left the gun on the drainboard, and Billie had found it on the high stool beside the stove. I pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked loudly on metal, but there was no explosion. Boyd smiled a crooked smile and blew breath between his lips. His eyes were full of anticipation and my blood ran cold as I realized what he was anticipating. He took a step towards me, his face chiseled in moonlight and shadow.

  “Where are the jewels?” he asked. His voice was throaty.

  “Gone,” I said.

  “Gone? They’re here, hidden. You know where they are.”

  “Billie took them. She left.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “They were in the eagle. We found them there. “You—you saw us leaving the room. We had the pouch—”

  He stared at me, bewildered, confused, a heavy crease in his brow. He realized then that I was telling the truth. He realized the jewels were gone. His face fell. It seemed to crumple. I thought for a moment he was going to cry. He clenched and unclenched his fists and made a strange noise in his throat. He looked up at me finally, and his eyes were glazed. Without a word he turned and stepped into the garage. I saw him bend down to pick something up. I watched, paralyzed, held rooted to the spot with a horrified fascination.

  He came out of the garage with a heavy wrench. It was long and black, deadly. He held it up by the handle and caressed it with his other hand. I saw that the end was wet with blood and knew that this was what he had used to hit Doctor Clarkson. Boyd caressed the wrench and moaned, a sound like crooning. He stood with his legs wide spread, his shoulders hunched forward, his powerful body silver in moonlight, his grotesque shadow black and distorted against the drive.

  I knew that this man was insane. I knew that he intended to kill me. I tried to scream, but no sound would come out. I wanted to run, but my feet were glued to the drive and my whole body was frozen with a terror that was like a physical force holding me down.

  Boyd looked down at the wrench and studied it as though it were an object of great beauty. He crooned softly, the most terrifying noise I have ever heard issue from a human throat, and then he looked up at me, and I saw the face that Henrietta must have seen in her last moment of life. It was not a human face. It was a face with all humanity crushed aside by the madness that possessed the man. He raised the wrench, and he giggled. He came towards me, moving slowly, each step crunching loudly on the drive. I saw the arm with the wrench raise back, saw him tense for the blow, heard him giggle again.

  Then the explosion came.

  I was in the center of the explosion. Gravel flew. Voices yelled. I felt arms flung about my body. I was thrown to the ground. I saw a streak of orange flame, heard another explosion and a shrill piercing scream and I looked up to see Boyd Devlon with his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide, a circle of scarlet spreading on his forehead. For an instant he stood there with his body still tensed for the blow, the wrench raised high, and then he fell with an enormous thud of dead weight. Men ran around, scattering gravel. I glimpsed Officer Stevens. I saw uniforms and boots. I felt the arms still around me, and my body was throbbing with pain from the tackle. George and I were both in the middle of the drive, surrounded by a chaos of noise and confusion.

  He touched my chin with his fingers, and his face was incredibly tender. His dark br
own eyes were full of concern, but his mouth was smiling. He ran his fingers over my lips, my cheeks, touched my eyelids as though they were exquisitely fragile.

  “I was with you every minute,” he said, his voice husky.

  “Upstairs—in the hall—”

  “Me,” he said, “watching you.”

  “The police—”

  “The house was surrounded with them, one behind every tree. They saw him attack the doctor, but he disappeared into the garage before they could get him. Stevens decided to wait until you came out. We wanted to hear him confess—we weren’t ten feet away from you—”

  “Why did—”

  He laid his hand over my lips. He cradled me in his arms there on the ground, amidst all the chaos and shouting. “Later,” he whispered, and I laid my head against his chest and tried to forget.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE HOTEL was one of Brighton’s finest, and our room was large and airy and dazzling with sunlight pouring through the French windows that opened onto a terrace overlooking the sea. We had been here for almost a week now, and Billie had already obtained a gorgeous tan and the fawning admiration of an equally gorgeous pop singer from Liverpool who had rugged features and soul blue eyes and dark brown hair Samson would have envied. He had seen her on the beach in her bikini and had been promptly smitten. In just a few days he was leaving for America to appear on television and make a record album and become an overnight celebrity, and he wanted to spend all his time with Billie before the plane carried him across the ocean.

  Billie sat at the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair until it was suitably disarrayed and then smoothed a final touch of brown shadow on her eyelids.

  “Imagine my horror,” she said, “leaving you there and knowing Devlon was lurking around and finding George’s cottage locked and having to break a window to get in and then phoning the police and being told they were already gone—”

  “You were very brave,” I told her.