When Emmalynn Remembers Page 5

  I smiled wryly. “You’re not talking to a nineteen-year-old girl now, Gordon,” I said. “The house isn’t for sale.”

  “No?”

  “Not to you.”

  “You still hold a grudge?”

  “Call it that if you like. You’re not going to have it.”

  “Come now. Be sensible. There’s no earthly reason why you should want to keep it yourself, and I will pay you far more than you could get from anyone else.”

  “You’re wasting your time, Gordon.”

  He stared at me, his blue eyes flat, his lips pressed tightly together. Gordon Stuart was completely without scruples, and he was accustomed to having his way. I didn’t doubt he would use any tactics, fair or foul, to get what he wanted, and I could see that he intended to have the house. I stared at him calmly, not at all intimidated. For a moment he seemed about to lash out, and then he relaxed, forcibly. I could see the effort it took for him to maintain that silken poise.

  “I have plenty of time,” he said quietly.

  “Do you?”

  “All the time in the world. I must warn you, Emmalynn, I usually get what I’m after—” The words were soft and silken, but I knew they contained a threat.

  “Not this time,” I promised.

  He smiled. “I can be very persuasive—”

  “I seem to remember that.”

  “Ah, yes,” He replied. “I was a fool, Emmalynn. I realize that now. I should have swept you away from her. I should have removed you from her clutches and introduced you to a world more worthy of your charms. It’s not too late—”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “It won’t work,” I said. “Not with this girl.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “It seems I’ve lost my touch,” he remarked. “Or perhaps I’ve merely underestimated you. Well—” He shrugged his shoulders again in that curiously elegant manner. “We’ll see what we shall see. It should prove very interesting. Tell me—is it true about your illness?”

  I nodded.

  “You actually saw the crime committed? And you don’t remember anything about being in Brighton?”

  “That’s right,” I replied.

  “I should think that would be—quite uncomfortable. Is it a permanent thing?” His voice was very casual, too casual.

  “Dr. Clarkson doesn’t think so. He thinks coming back here will cause me to remember—everything.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’ll make a report to the police and it will all be over.”

  “Highly unusual—” he said, frowning. “Hmm,” he seemed to be lost in thought. “It must have taken a great deal of courage for you to come back here—under the circumstances.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh—nothing, really. You actually saw the murder? Reed’s son says his father didn’t kill her—you must know that. He’s been running all over the countryside trying to find evidence, trying to find proof that someone else did it. He’s even had the gall to question me. It would be rather dangerous, wouldn’t it, if his father really was innocent? You saw the murder, and when you remember—”

  “Are you trying to frighten me?”

  “I couldn’t dream of it, My Dear. Very ungentlemanly. I wonder—” He paused again, and I could almost see a devious idea planting itself in his mind. “This illness—very unusual. Very delicate things, all these mental disturbances. You could remember today, or tomorrow, or—why, you might even go insane.” He spoke quietly, thoughtfully, but his words caused a cold chill to grip me. “I wonder if you’re legally competent to handle an inheritance?”

  “You’re foul,” I whispered.

  “It might be worth investigation. Yes, it just might be.”

  “Dr. Clarkson—”

  “Dr. Clarkson could be managed,” he said smoothly.

  “Leave me alone, Gordon.”

  “I fight very dirty, My Dear. You should know that.”

  “Leave—”

  “Be smart,” he said. “Don’t fight me. I—uh—wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

  “You don’t intimidate me.”

  “No? Be smart,” he repeated. “Pack your bags and leave this place. Sell it to me. I’ll pay you handsomely, and you can take a nice trip to the south of France or Majorca and have yourself a holiday.”

  “Not a chance,” I said.

  “Very well—”

  “Goodbye, Gordon.”

  “Goodbye, Emmalynn. I’ll—keep in touch.”

  He took my hand and pressed it warmly, and he nodded his head, mocking me with this sham gallantry. I pulled my hand away, and Gordon grinned. He gave me a lingering look with his piercing blue eyes, and then he left. He walked down the steps and strolled towards the car, poised, elegant, a man completely confident of victory. My hands were trembling, and I felt cold all over, but I didn’t intend to give way to the violent emotions that threatened to overcome me. I stood rigidly on the veranda, watching him get into his car and drive away. I didn’t hear Billie step outside. I wasn’t even aware of her until she touched my arm.

  “Em—are you all right?”

  “Yes. I—I think so.”

  “I heard. I came to tell you dinner was ready, and I heard everything he said. My God—”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “He’s incredible! Why—I was scared spitless just listening. Em—I think—shouldn’t we leave, go back to London?”

  “That’s exactly what he’d like for us to do!”

  “But—”

  I shook my head violently. “I’m not going to let him scare me off that easily. He’s vile—perfectly vile—but there’s not a thing he can do to me. I don’t intend to run!”

  “I don’t understand. Why does he want this house? Why could he possibly want it?”

  “I don’t know, Billie,” I said, “but I intend to find out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THERE WERE BOUND to be noises in an old house. Windows would rattle, boards would creak, the foundations would settle, and there would undoubtedly be rats scurrying in the walls. I was determined not to let any of them bother me. I was determined to sleep soundly and get up in the morning to a busy, active day. There was much to be done. We hadn’t explored the house yet, and I wanted to go through all the closed rooms and examine them. Some of the furniture might fetch a good price on the antique market, and the house itself could be placed in the hands of a real estate agent who would eventually sell it for me—to anyone besides Gordon Stuart. I was exhausted after a long, nerve-wracking day, and I felt sure I would be able to sleep as soon as I rested my head on the pillow.

  I snuffed out the candle and got into bed. The sheets were of coarse linen texture, but they were deliciously scented. It was after midnight, for Billie and I had sat up in the parlor for hours after dinner, talking. She was asleep now, perfectly cozy in her red room, but I was finding it harder to slip into unconsciousness. The windows were all open, and the breeze caused the curtains to billow into the room. In the semi-darkness, they looked remarkably like ghostly figures stirring restlessly, whispering inaudible warnings. I closed my eyes, banishing the fantasy.

  The little portable traveling clock on my bedside table ticked loudly and monotonously. I hoped the monotony of the sound would lull me to sleep. I could hear the waves washing over the shore. The sound was so much like heavy breathing that it was slightly unnerving. It sounded as though someone were standing just outside the window, breathing heavily, or panting. Nonsense, I told myself, nonsense. Think about pleasant things. Think about the studio and Clive and the book. Think about the flat in Chelsea and parties and bright colors. Don’t think at all. Just sink, sink slowly into darkness. Black, welcome, cool, sleep.

  It didn’t work. My mind wouldn’t obey. I thought about the ugly black trees that surrounded the house on three sides, dark woods, full of darkness, cutting the house off, shrouding it. I thought about the desolate beach with the decrepit boathouse and the pier
, rotten wood, barnacles and decay. I thought about all the rooms shut up tight, dust covers over all the furniture, cobwebs stretching across the corners, and I thought about the long, dark halls, and I could hear stealthy footsteps creeping along. The house is old, and it’s settling. A scurrying sound. Rats. The curtains billowed, flapping gently, slap, slap, a sucking sound, slap again, the stiff material rustling. A window frame rattled loudly downstairs. Someone breaking in. No, a sudden gust of wind.… Black shadows, lulling, surrounding, whispering.…

  I saw her hobbling along the hall, her dyed red hair piled untidily on top of her head, her withered old face smiling in anticipation of a fight. She loved a fight more than anything. Brighton is so dull, no one to fight with, and then Burt Reed started building the extra room on his cottage, a wonderful excuse for a good scrap. She hobbled down the hall, her gnarled old hand gripping the head of the ebony cane. I could hear her chuckling as she peered through the window at the side of the door, seeing a dark shadow standing in the gray, misty shadows on the porch. She opened the door, and I saw the blade of the axe gleaming in the moonlight, and I heard the horrifying noise as bones crunched, saw rivers of blood pouring over the porch and dripping down the front steps.…

  I sat up in bed. The house was absolutely still, frightening still. There was no noise besides the ticking of the clock. I could not even hear the sound of the sea. The curtains hung limply at the windows, not a breath of air. The tick, tick of the clock. Nothing else. I looked at the clock. The luminous dials glowed. It was almost four thirty in the morning. So I had slept, after all. I was wide awake now, tense, alert, and it didn’t seem I could possibly have slept. There was no drowsiness, no feeling of groggy release. I was as awake as I had ever been in my life, every nerve stretched tight, waiting.

  Waiting for what? I had been dreaming, dark wings fluttering around in my mind, puzzling pictures, shadows, Henrietta hobbling down the hall and opening the door, pain, terror, and then something had jerked away the layers of unconsciousness, ripped them aside and brought me shooting up to this state of acute awareness. My shoulders were trembling, my wrists felt limp, and my throat was dry. It had happened so suddenly that it took me a moment to realize that I was gripped with terror.

  A dream. The dream awakened me. I saw it happen in my mind, and it was so bloodcurdling that I shot up in bed, wide awake, the dream gone but the horror of it still there. I tried to convince myself that it was only the dream, but I knew it wasn’t. Something had awakened me with a jolt, something real, not imagined. I gripped the sheets with tight fingers. I sat paralyzed, listening, but there was no noise besides the ticking of the clock. I sat for several minutes, waiting, listening, and finally some of the terror vanished and I sighed, scolding myself for my weakness. A dream, an overactive imagination, terror … I was twenty-five years old, a full grown woman, not a little girl afraid of the dark.

  Misty moonlight poured through the windows suffusing the room with a foggy blue-gray light. Shadows slid along the striped wallpaper. I could see the shapes of furniture, the gigantic wardrobe, the heavy dresser, the murky mirror that reflected the moonlight. In the mirror I could see a young woman with hair spilling about her shoulders in long auburn waves, her face pale, her eyes dark, smudges of shadow under them. I lifted one hand to push back a lock of hair, and the girl in the mirror did the same.

  Four thirty, almost morning. At least three more hours of sleep. No reason to be alarmed. The sun will be coming up in a little while, and all the shadows will be driven away. Sleep. It was a dream, nothing more, and it woke you up. Foolish to sit here like this, waiting, listening. Then I heard footsteps in the hall.

  I caught my breath, terrified. The floorboards creaked loudly, and I was quite sure that someone was walking down the hall right outside. There could be no mistake about it. I gripped the sheet so tightly that I almost tore the coarse linen fabric. A footstep, pause, another footstep, then silence. The clock ticked, one minute passed, another, five minutes and no more footsteps. Was someone standing outside the door of my room? There was the sound of heavy breathing. Someone was standing by the door, listening, and I was sure they could hear my heart pounding. Another minute. I watched the antique brass doorknob, fascinated, certain it had turned. I had not locked the door. The doorknob turned. Did it? Ever so slightly? No. The sound of breathing was the sound of the sea, washing over the sand and lapping the shingles. A breeze stirred the curtains. They billowed as they had done earlier, fluttering white shapes dancing demonically.

  Nonsense, I told myself. You’re tired, upset, your nerves on edge. You had a terrible dream and it woke you up and you’re imagining things. It is almost daylight. No one is standing outside the door. No one was walking stealthily down the hall.

  I knew it would be impossible to sleep unless I made sure. I got out of bed and slipped a white cotton robe over my beige silk pajamas. I opened the door to the dressing room and bath and moved slowly towards the door to Billie’s room. The bathroom floor was cold to my bare feet, and there was the odor of cologne that Billie had spilled earlier in the night. If there had been a loud noise, loud enough to wake me up with a start, it would have awakened her, too.

  I was almost certain there had been footsteps in the hall, not certain but almost. Perhaps it had been Billie. Perhaps she had awakened and gone downstairs to get something to eat. She was always doing that in the flat. She would eat practically nothing at dinner and then raid the icebox in the middle of the night. I shook my head, almost amused at the thought. There was nothing on God’s earth that could induce Billie to go downstairs in the dark by herself in this house. She would die of starvation first. No, if there had been footsteps, they most certainly weren’t Billie’s. I opened the door to her room, half expecting her to be wide awake, trembling with terror.

  She was curled on the bed on top of twisted sheets, wearing a pair of shortie pajamas, a black velvet mask over her eyes. Ear plugs, too, no doubt. She was sleeping peacefully, her hair tangled on the pillow, one arm dangling over the side of the bed. Moonlight flooded the room, gilding the red walls with silver. I closed the door quietly behind me and went back to my own room.

  Sleep was out of the question, at least for the present. I sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to find enough courage to do what I knew I would have to do to chase away the phantoms. There was no one in the hall, but I knew I had to make sure before I could even think of sleeping again.

  It’s absurd, absurd, I told myself shakily. No one would dare break into the house, not when there’s a man about. Boyd Devlon is in the carriage house, and he’s a light sleeper. He told us that tonight. He has a gun. He told us that, too. All the doors were locked, all the windows, and no one could have broken in without awakening him. Billie told him she was scared tonight when they were in the kitchen, and he laughed at her, told her not to worry. The carriage house is all the way in back, and he may not be such a light sleeper after all. Someone could have cut the glass on one of the French windows and reached in to unfasten the handle, like they do in mystery movies. They’d have tape to keep the glass from falling. This is absurd, absurd.

  I tightened the belt of my robe and ran my hand through my hair, trying to reassure myself that there was nothing amiss. I groped on the bedside table and found the candle in its old brass holder. I found the book of matches and tried to strike one on the cover. My hands were trembling so violently that I couldn’t manage anything even as simple as striking a match. I cursed, furious at myself, furious with my cowardice and my over active imagination. I used half a book of matches before I finally managed to get one properly lit. I held it over the wick of the candle, cupping my hand around the flame. The golden-orange glow flickered and began to spread in an ever widening circle.

  Bathed by the misty moonlight, the room had been subdued, quiet, but the candlelight caused violent black shadows to leap and jump on the walls. The harsh outlines of the furniture were brought into prominence, and the tears and crinkles in the
old wallpaper were revealed. Whoever said candlelight was romantic? I wondered. It was ugly, wavering, dim. Better to walk in darkness than to walk with the wick of a candle flickering wildly as beads of wax spluttered in the brass holder. Nothing would have induced me to go out into the hall without it, despite the fluttering flame. I turned the doorknob that had held me fascinated a few minutes ago. I opened the door and stepped into the hall.

  It was cold here. We had opened the windows at either end, hoping the fresh air would dispell some of the musty odor. I shivered, standing there in front of my door, looking up and down the length of the hall. Moonlight came in through the windows, making pools of silver at both ends, but the rest was black, thronging with shadows. A dozen people could be standing against those dark walls, watching me as I stepped timidly forward with the candle holder gripped tightly in my hand.

  I walked the length of the hall, holding the candle high. The yellow glow threw shadows leaping about the William Morris wallpaper. Curious little birds and defiant unicorns stared down at me. My back was rigid, and I moved slowly. The waves washed the shore, and the noise coming through the opened windows was suggestive. Breathing, heavy breathing. I passed the door of Billie’s room. I walked on down the hall, and I almost didn’t see the door that was opened. It stood ajar, hanging rather loosely on the old hinges, and I was past it before the fact that it was open registered. We had closed all the doors and locked them, hadn’t we? We examined all the rooms and decided on the two we would use, and we locked the doors of those we wouldn’t occupy. Hadn’t we? I couldn’t remember for sure.

  I pushed the door back. The hinges creaked loudly. The noise was terrifying in the silence, even though I had caused it myself. The room was a great tomb of darkness, all the windows closed, the heavy draperies shut tight. There was an odor of old wax and rotting material. The flame flickered over the shredding paper that drooped on the walls, darted over the dark bulky furniture that was covered with dust. A pair of hard yellow eyes glared down at me, and I almost screamed. The eyes belonged to a stuffed eagle that perched atop the wardrobe, its wings spread wide. It looked as though it were about to swoop down and tear my face with its wicked beak. I shuddered. A terrible thing to have in a bedroom. Imagine sleeping with something like that hovering over you. I had always considered taxidermy a loathsome hobby, and the eagle only strengthened this conviction.