Stranger by the Lake (19 page)

I realized that these letters were extremely valuable, shedding much light on the character of the young Arabella. Aunt Agatha had given Craig access to all the family papers, but for some reason or other this little teakwood box had not been among those other trunks and boxes that contained the diaries and letters and documents the family had preserved. The letters I was reading hadn't been touched in all these years, or else the rose sitting on top of them would have been destroyed. I had happened upon them by accident, and it was an exciting discovery.

The light gradually faded as I read, turning the priceless pages with great care. The love story that unfolded was thrilling, charged with drama and conflict. They had met at a fashionable French watering place where the whole Radcliff clan had come for the waters. Arabella chanced to be walking along the embankment by the sea at the same time Lieutenant Gordon strolled in his dashing uniform. He was already world weary and disillusioned by his experiences in India, cynical and brooding, and she was a healthy eighteen year old, just blooming into womanhood. It would have been hard to find two such dissimilar individuals, yet they had fallen in love on sight with typical Victorian fervor, and Arabella's parents had been horrified that such a rake would dare pay court to their treasured daughter. They had forbidden her to see him, but she had slipped out to meet him by the sea, even after they locked her in her room. Robert had gone to Paris to make arrangements for his next trip into Africa, and it was while he was there that she had written these impassioned letters. They planned to elope, and Arabella outlined the arrangements she was making with the aid of a sympathetic housemaid.

I finished the last letter, holding it in my lap and thinking about the elopement as I had read of it in books. Sir Robert had come back to the watering place under the cover of night, bidding the coachman wait for him while he collected the young girl who had flung her bags out of her bedroom window and climbed down a drainpipe to grab them up and flee into the darkness, meeting her lover by the embankment while great waves crashed on the ancient sea wall. They had hurried to the waiting coach which carried them back to Paris, and there a priest married them in a shabby old church just as the first rays of morning sun stained the bricks with rose-colored light and woke the pigeons roosting under the eaves.

How bold they had been, how daring and unconventional, even more so when one considered the age they had lived in. Arabella had made her decision and cast everything else aside, rushing into the arms of the man who would love her and torment her, making her life a hell at times, at times a heaven few women could hope for. She had been as flamboyant as he, yet in middle age she had turned to religion and charity, assembling about her all those staid Victorian conventions she had defied in youth, going as far as to destroy priceless manuscripts that might have offended a straightlaced Queen and her more pious subjects.

I put the letters back in the teakwood box, closing it and setting it aside. I would tell Aunt Agatha about the letters and let her decide what to do with them. The letters had distracted me from the business at hand, and I continued the search with renewed vigor, going through all the boxes and cupboards, finding countless interesting objects but nothing of any real importance. Through the windows I could see that the sky had turned a dark, brooding gray, hanging low, swollen with rain, and the wind soared about the rooftops with a sharp, whistling sound.

I really should have gone down then, but it wasn't late, and there was still enough light to search by, even though everything seemed to be tinged with gray and shadows were beginning to form. Leaving the large room, I passed down another hall, going down four steps, turning a corner, following the narrow hall to where three steps led up to another room. The attics were like a labyrinth, I thought, rooms stuck here and there with no apparent rhyme or reason. The next room I entered was filled with old statues that must once have stood in the gardens, white marble gods and goddesses covered with dust. I pitied the poor workmen who must have lugged the heavy figures up here. The statues seemed to stare at me accusingly as I passed through, as though I were to blame for their banishment.

A short passageway led to another room that looked more promising. One side of the room was filled with tattered Persian carpets tied up in rolls, and heavy chests stood across from them. Overhead was a skylight of murky glass panes that gave me all the light I needed. I pulled out the drawer of one of the chests and saw a coconut and took it out, wondering why on earth anyone should keep such an item. I held it up to the light and then let out a bloodcurdling scream, hurling the object away.

It rolled across the floor and stared up at me. It wasn't a coconut at all. It was a shrunken head, lank black hair hanging down, lips sewn together, eye sockets vacant. I shuddered, wiping my hand across my slacks vigorously. The drawer was filled with shrunken heads, one of them with long blond hair. I slammed it shut, wondering if I dared open another. I finally summoned enough courage to do so and found a drawerful of brightly colored African masks, exquisitely painted but hideous nevertheless. These chests obviously contained curios from Sir Robert's travels, I assumed, and further examination proved that assumption to be correct. I found no more shrunken heads, but there were knives and feathered pouches and grotesque little idols carved in wood and ivory, some graphic in detail. All belonged in a museum.

I forgot all about the ugly black and gray head on the floor behind me and was soon immersed in my task. I found maps on heavy parchment, crudely stained with red and black and green dyes, and there was a necklace made of bones, the kind a witch doctor would wear in a jungle movie. Such items were fairly commor in museums all over the world, and none of these things was particulary valuable in itself, but the collection as a whole was most unusual. I could see Sir Robert trekking through the jungles, picking these pieces up as he searched for lost cities and recorded the customs of pygmy tribes along the way.

I was examining the contents of the final chest when the rain began to patter on the skylight, gently at first, gathering momentum until at last great drops pounded on the glass like showers of pebbles, making a furious racket. The light was almost gone, and I realized that I should leave the attics immediately if I didn't want to be caught in the dark. It would only take me a few more minutes to finish searching the chest, and then I would leave. The last drawer held beautiful silk prayer mats, sadly faded with age, smelling of mildew. No manuscripts here, but there were several more attic rooms, and perhaps I could search them tomorrow.

Retracing my steps, I moved back down the short passageway and stepped into the roomful of statues. It hadn't been a fruitless search, I reasoned. I had discovered the letters, and that in itself was quite important. Aunt Agatha was sure to be elated when I told her about them. I paused to look at the statue of Diana, rubbing some of the dust from her cheeks and touching her chipped nose. The rain was making a dreadful racket overhead, clattering angrily, and the wind was raging. It was hard to realize that this morning had been so gloriously bright and sunny. Leaving the forlorn marble statues behind, I walked down the narrow hall to the corner where the hall branched off and led to the room with the letters. I was lost in thought, and I didn't hear the footsteps at first. It was not until I was almost to the other room that I distinctly heard someone moving around.

I stopped, peering through the open doorway into the dim room. I could see the dressmaker's dummy leaning against the wall and the furniture piled up in the corner. I heard a board creak, then another, the sounds clear and distinct even with the elements raging outside. At first I was merely curious, wondering if someone had come up to find me, and it took me a moment to realize what that might imply. Icy fingers seemed to grip me, holding me rooted to the spot, unable to move. Another board creaked, and then there was a shuffling sound as though someone had pushed something out of the way. I saw a long shadow stirring, thrown against the wall by someone who was out of my range of vision.

This can't be happening, I told myself, almost cheerfully. Such things don't happen, not in real life, not to real people.… I almost laughed aloud, hysteria welling up inside of me.

Another board creaked. The shadow moved stealthily.

Black wings seems to close in on me, fluttering, blotting out everything else, and there was a ringing in my head. I threw my hand out to support myself, steeling every nerve in my body and willing myself not to pass out. I stumbled against the wall and my head seemed to spin, but I didn't faint. I leaned against the wall, limp. I felt as though all the blood had been drained from my body, and I had to close my eyes, catch my breath, and summon strength that had to be there.

My throat was dry, but I managed to call out.

“Who is it?” The words were a raspy croak.

There was no response. The shadow was still against the wall, long and black, leaning forward. Someone was waiting for me to step into the room. It wasn't a rigment of my imagination. There was an aura of evil in the air as strong and real as it had been in the east wing yesterday morning. Someone was waiting, and I had been a fool, a fool, a bloody fool to have come up here alone. I had been so sure of myself, so confident, and now … I realized I couldn't panic. I had to pull myself together. I couldn't give in to the hysteria that was like another being inside, fighting to break out and overcome me.

Somehow I was able to move. I backed slowly down the hall, keeping my eyes on that dark doorway, expecting someone to come tearing out after me at any moment. It seemed like hours before I reached the corner, and then I fled down the hall, stumbling up the steps and through the room filled with statues, racing through the passageway and into the room that held the African collection. I leaned against one of the chests, panting, trying to catch my breath. Thunder rumbled and rain pounded, but there were no sounds of pursuit. I stared back the way I had come. The passageway was empty, the statues still standing stiffly in the room beyond, casting long shadows on the floor. There was another shadow, moving slowly, ever so slowly, and I caught a quick glimpse of something dark before I dashed out of the room, fleeing down yet another hall that twisted and turned, leading me through a series of dark, cluttered rooms.

I stumbled against a wall and stood there panting. It was almost totally dark here, everything solid black, a faint gray light barely penetrating the gloom. Somewhere behind me a dark form was moving steadily foward, looking for me, and I realized it would be impossible to escape. I couldn't go back the way I had come, and I had no idea where I was now. I was at the mercy of the darkness and the evil that stirred in the air. Tears slid down my cheeks, and the corners of my mouth quivered. I had no hope, no hope whatsoever. For one long terrifying moment I was resigned to whatever might happen, and then I rallied.

I don't know where the calm came from, but it was suddenly there, coming over me with cold deliberation and driving away the panic. Behind me, in one of those rooms I had stumbled through in haste, someone was moving. The sound of the rain was muted, a monotonous drumming, but the sound of footsteps moving stealthily was loud, boards creaking. Whoever it was was in no hurry, confident in the knowledge that I couldn't possibly escape. I leaned against the wall, my breathing even now, that icy calm gripping me like a live thing, forcing me to think.

I was trapped in the attics, surrounded by darkness and dust and cobwebs, unfamiliar with the rooms and passages, and I hadn't a prayer of retracing my steps and slipping past my pursuer and getting back downstairs. But I could hide. I realized that that was my only chance. I could hide in the darkness and be very still and quiet and hope for the best. I inched my way along the wall, sliding my back against the wood, and finally I came to a corner and turned and sped silently down the hall.

I found a tiny room no larger than eight feet square, one small window set high up making a wet gray square on the outside wall. There was a door opening onto the hall, but I didn't dare pull it shut behind me, afraid the noise would give me away. The room was a nest of darkness, and I crept into a corner and leaned against a pile of boxes and waited, peering into the hall.

Long minutes passed. The rain stopped pounding. There was a dripping sound now as wet rivulets slid off the eaves of various levels and splashed on other levels of rooftop. Inside there was only the sound of my breathing. I strained to listen, but there was no sound in the hall outside the room where I stood huddled. Not at first. Then I heard the slow, careful shuffle of stealthy footsteps echoing softly. It was distant and subdued at first, growing louder, drawing nearer. I clasped my hands together and bit my lower lip, every nerve tensed.

The footsteps were only a few feet away from the open doorway now, and then they stopped. A floorboard creaked as weight was shifted. Someone was standing just outside, listening. I was screaming inside, and had the sound been audible it would have split the silence with shattering impact. I had to gnaw my lower lip to keep the scream from escaping. Someone hovered out there, and I could hear heavy breathing, and then a noise that sounded like a giggle. It was the most horrifying sound I had ever heard. It rose up and then stopped abruptly and there was a loud creaking and a bang and I realized that the door had been slammed shut, closing me up in the room. There was a loud click as a heavy bolt was jammed into place, then only the sound of my own panic.

I flew to the door. I pulled the knob. I tried to turn it. I pounded on the heavy oak with my fists and screamed and pleaded and knocked and cried and finally fell back, realizing that it was futile. This was far more terrifying than anything else could have been. I had a horror of tight closed places, and now I was locked in and the walls would crush me and I felt sheer animal panic. There was no way out. The door was solid oak, three inches thick, and the bolt was iron and I could throw my whole weight against the door and it wouldn't budge even the tiniest fraction of an inch.