Stranger by the Lake Read online

  “Quite,” I added.

  “I’m glad to be rid of ’em for a while,” Paul said, smiling broadly. “It’s been a nice evening, Agatha. Thank you for asking me. I don’t want to hear any more about your refusing the pills, hear? You need them, or I wouldn’t have sent ’em over. It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he continued, turning to me. “You keep an eye on her. Promise?”

  “It’s a promise,” I replied.

  Paul left, and Aunt Agatha squeezed my hand. “I’m going to go fetch Craig’s chapter and take it on up to my bedroom,” she said, brushing her long black skirt and fiddling with the rope of pearls. “Are you coming up, dear?”

  “Not just yet,” I replied. “I—I think I’ll take a little walk in the gardens. I’m afraid I had a bit too much Scotch. The night air will do me good.”

  “Very well,” she said, giving me a hug.

  “What about the candles?” I inquired.

  “Craig will put them out when he comes back. Your oil lamp is there on the table, I see. Be sure you take it up with you——”

  “I wouldn’t dream of going up without it,” I said.

  Aunt Agatha went on upstairs, and I was alone in the great hall, the candles splattering the walls with wavering golden light. I wasn’t at all sleepy, and I was a bit giddy from the Scotch. I stepped through the small drawing room and opened the French windows, going on out onto the terrace. The moon was high, half obscured by enormous gray clouds, but pouring silvery light over their dark rims. Leaving the terrace, I strolled aimlessly toward the lake, positively determined to avoid Craig Stanton if he should by any chance see me on his return from Dower House.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The gardens were drenched in moonlight, everything black and silver, sharply outlined, a misty haze in the air. It was rather like a neo-impressionist painting, I thought, pink and orange-pink roses barely showing their colors in the mellow light, tall green shrubs more black than green. Moving down the flat marble steps, I smelled the fragrant odors, a stronger odor of soil and dead leaves underlining the sweet smell of rose petals. It was rather chilly out, a breeze causing leaves to tremble. I paused, standing beside a broken marble column, staring up at the sky: moon free from clouds now, silver beams melting against the black-gray expanse overhead. It was a romantic night, I thought, a night made for lovers.

  I frowned, thinking about Craig Stanton. In truth, I really hadn’t stopped thinking of him. I was furious with him, and yet I wondered if the anger wasn’t merely a self-imposed smoke screen to cover up deeper emotions I refused to acknowledge. The man had allure, quite plainly. I couldn’t deny that. Was I really a stiff little prude, running away from him as he had suggested? Of course not, I told myself, moving on along the rows of rosebeds. I was just wary, and rightly so.

  There had been other men in my life. A few years ago I had been smitten with a handsome young poet with soulful brown eyes and thick blond hair and a wide, sensuous mouth. I was still working as a secretary then, and Eric had seemed the epitome of all a young girl could dream of. He was attentive and kind, gentle and considerate but very male. He was also quite poor, living in a slum attic and scrounging for enough to live on. I gladly bought his lunches, his dinners. I even bought him a lovely brown suede jacket lined with sheepskin so he wouldn’t catch cold. My secretary’s wages weren’t all that grand, and Eric found someone else, richer, better able to promote his poetry in the right circles. I was stung by the’ experience, yet I could afford to laugh at it now. I had been quite foolish, but I had learned to beware of too-tender sentiments.

  Last year, while visiting my mother in Sydney, I had met a rich Australian rancher who tried to sweep me off my feet. He was robust and bursting with hormones, determined to take me into the bush and make me his bride. Quite handsome, he was, with unruly black hair and sapphire-blue eyes, and he owned half a dozen ranches. My mother was enthusiastic about my prospects and couldn’t understand why I resisted. Reggie was a bit too aggressively male for my taste. He was like a force of nature, strong, obstinate, knocking aside all obstacles. He threatened to kidnap me if I didn’t give him an answer soon. I booked immediate passage back to England, bidding my mother a fast farewell. Poor Reggie was probably still prowling the streets of Sydney, trying to abduct a suitable bride.

  So I wasn’t completely without experience. I had certainly had enough experience to be wary of a man like Craig Stanton. Actually, Paul Matthews was more my type: solid, strong, dependable, attractive with his craggy face and big, healthy build. A man like that would wear, with none of the mercurial, quicksilver qualities that were so dazzling and, ultimately, so elusive. But I wasn’t ready for any kind of man. I was too content with my life the way it was. I had my career, my freedom, my cozy little habits. I wasn’t about to cast all that aside because some man decided to give me a break and take over. I had resisted Reggie, who had wanted to marry me, and I could certainly resist Craig Stanton, whose intentions were hardly that honorable.

  Forcing all these thoughts aside, I concentrated on the gardens and the beauty of the night. Crickets chirped raspily, and there was the rustle of leaves and, from down near the lake, the solitary song of a bird hidden among the trees. I walked under a trellis of honeysuckle and found myself at the edge of the gardens, the lawns sloping down toward the wooded area that surrounded the lake. I remembered the black marble mausoleum there on the edge of the water and decided to go and look at it.

  The lawns were spongy, already damp with night moisture, and my high heels were hardly the appropriate shoes for such activity, but I walked on nevertheless, the grounds gilded with silver and spread with long shadows that moved slowly as clouds drifted across the face of the moon. The woods were very dark, and I hesitated just a moment, not really from fear. I remembered what Althea had said about bats, and I didn’t relish the idea of any of the furry creatures swooping down on me. I moved on into the trees, curious to see the black marble tent again, wondering if it were as bizarre and sinister as I remembered.

  I could smell the water now, smell moss and rotten logs and mud, and in the distance, through the trees, I could see the lake itself, its surface half obscured by veils of mist that swirled over it like ghostly white wraiths. I stumbled over a root and had to grab a low-hanging limb to keep from falling. What nonsense, I told myself, I should have waited until I was properly dressed to go exploring. I knew I should have turned back but I went on, trees thick on either side, only a few rays of moonlight seeping through the canopy of branches overhead. I could hear birds stirring in the boughs, and I kept thinking of bats, peering at every limb that might possibly harbor them.

  Stepping out of the woods at last, I found myself on the shore of the lake. The mists were really heavier than I had imagined at first, a blanket of thick white vapor spreading, growing thicker. The water lapped at the shore, stirred by the evening breeze, and there was the sound of whispers. I stopped, momentarily paralyzed, and then I realized that it was only the combination of wind and water and rustling leaves that caused that curious sound. It was not unpleasant, rather like crooning, voices crooning to the night, whispering voices that lifted and blended together. There was nothing sinister about the sound, yet I felt a chill creeping over me. I fervently wished I had waited till daylight to come down here. This was sheer folly.…

  My thoughts had been all about romance before, but now, naturally, I thought of the dinner conversation about intruders, remembering that Althea insisted she had seen prowlers on the grounds even after Paul had sent over the dogs. Pleasant thoughts, very cheerful at this particular moment. I remembered turning into the east wing, remembered the cold, clammy air and the dark form hovering in the doorway. I scolded myself mentally, trying to get hold of myself, but the sinister thoughts persisted as the mists spread and the water slapped gently at the muddy shoreline.

  Fear welled up inside me, rising quickly, forcefully, and I stared at the lake, wondering what on earth had possessed me to leave the gardens and come
down here. It was almost as though something had summoned me, I thought, and now I was surrounded by darkness and water and trees, at the mercy of the night. There was a moment of sheer panic, and then I managed to laugh at myself. I was acting exactly like one of my own heroines. This was Gordonwood, not a spooky estate, and I was a level-headed young woman taking an evening stroll, not a damsel in jeopardy. I had come to see the mausoleum of my own volition. I certainly hadn’t been summoned by some sinister force outside my control. I wandered along the shore, the earlier apprehension gone now.

  It was lovely, really. The water was black, a vast expanse of inky wetness undulating with tiny waves, the mist hanging over it in gently waving white veils. There was enough moonlight to guide my way, wavering beams pointing out the smooth, narrow curve of land between trees and water, an occasional log blocking the way. A frog croaked nearby, startling me, and there was a loud splash as it hopped off a log and plunged into the water. I wasn’t exactly sure where the mausoleum stood, but I was sure to find it if I followed the shoreline. The mists were spreading, obscuring part of the land now, visible white vapors waving in front of me. Perhaps I should go back, I thought calmly. It really wasn’t so important that I see the place tonight. Perhaps.…

  I saw it ahead of me, sitting at the edge of the water, shrouded by mist. It was a vast black marble tent, but it looked like black silk, and the sides seemed to billow in the breeze. I stopped, staring at it from the distance. Sir Robert and Arabella were resting there, as they had rested so many nights in so many distant lands, and it was almost as though they were merely sleeping and in the morning would fold up the tent and move on to another place. I listened to the whispers, and there was a faint tinkling sound. The tinkling of a camel’s bell, I thought, my flesh suddenly cold. I actually hear it, but it’s a legend, a ghost story.… I closed my eyes, listening, straining to hear the sound again, but it was gone. Romantic nonsense, I told myself, still a bit shaky. For a moment I had actually believed I had heard the sound. I hadn’t, of course. It had been the product of an over-active imagination.

  I moved toward the black marble tent, amazed at the way it seemed to billow. The marble gleamed darkly in the moonlight, like the purest silk, and the sculpture was so realistic. There were even black marble ropes and stakes to hold the poles in place. I stood before it, peering at the words engraved on the plaque: HERE LIES SIR ROBERT GORDON, with the dates of his birth and death, and, below that, AND HIS WIFE, no further legend given, not even her name. She had been submissive, even in death. The front flaps of the tent were slightly parted, permitting entry into the mausoleum, but no force on earth could have induced me to step inside. The mists rose up, wrapping the tent in trailing white vapors even as I stood there. I turned to go back, musing on the couple resting in that bizarre tomb.

  I had taken several steps before I heard the wood cracking. It made a loud popping noise, as though someone had stepped on a fallen branch, snapping it with his foot. I stopped, standing very still, my body seemingly frozen in place. There was a shuffling sound at the edge of the woods, the sound of someone pushing aside a branch of shrubbery. My heart pounded violently, and I caught my breath, every nerve jangling. I wasn’t imagining anything this time. Someone was there, at the edge of the woods, watching me. I was standing in a pool of moonlight, clearly visible, my shoulders trembling. Eyes peered at me from out of the darkness, and I heard a cough. I closed my eyes, wondering if I were going to pass out, and my body swayed a little.

  “Miss Marlow?” The voice was a whisper, blending with the whispers from the lake. At first I wasn’t sure that someone had actually spoken my name.

  “Is—is someone there?” I stammered.

  “Over here——”

  I peered in the direction of the sound. I could see the man standing just in front of the trees, his form clearly outlined against their darker shapes. The features weren’t visible, but I could see the gleam of blond hair and a pale, oval face. He stepped toward me, and I clenched my hands tightly at my sides, preparing to scream.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, moving closer. “I won’t hurt you.”

  He stepped into the shaft of moonlight, and I saw him clearly for the first time. He was wearing tennis shoes, tight beige denim trousers, and a soft brown turtleneck sweater. He looked young and vulnerable, as he had looked last night at the inn, but I no longer felt maternal. I remembered what Aunt Agatha had said: “Poor Charlie is tetched.” Tetched was merely a quaint word for mad. This handsome boy might be a maniac, I thought, my pulses leaping, and I recalled my aunt saying that some villagers believed he had strangled the mysterious woman and buried her in the basement of the inn.

  “It’s me,” he said, “Charlie Grayson.”

  “I—I know,” I said, striving to control myself. “Don’t—come any closer. I’ll scream.”

  “Why should you do that?” he inquired. “I wouldn’t want you to scream, Miss Marlow. Someone might hear.”

  He moved very quickly, darting toward me, seizing my wrist, whirling me around and clamping his hand over my mouth. Holding my wrist in an iron vise, the other hand gripping my chin and covering my mouth, he pulled me out of the moonlight, toward the trees. He was quite strong, despite his slender build, and my feeble efforts to escape were futile. This is it, I thought, my mind racing. He intends to rape me, and then … we were at the edge of the woods now, in darkness, and Charlie stopped, holding me against him.

  “I don’t intend to hurt you,” he whispered softly.

  He released my wrist and slowly removed some of the pressure of the hand clamped over my mouth.

  “Promise not to scream?” he said. “If you promise, I’ll let you go, Miss Marlow.”

  He moved his hand away, holding it cupped inches from my lips, ready to clamp back in place should I cry out.

  “Promise?” he whispered.

  “I—yes,” I mumbled. “You—you won’t get away with this. There are dogs loose, and——”

  “The dogs are in the house,” he said quietly. “They roam the halls at night.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, still fighting to control myself. He was far too strong for me to hope to break away. My only hope was to outwit him.

  “Everyone in the village knows about the dogs,” Charlie replied. “Dr. Matthews made sure everyone knew, to discourage intruders.”

  “What—what do you want of me?” I said, and my voice was at last under control, no longer quavering.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” he said. “I came here—I didn’t know how I was going to reach you. I thought maybe I could slip into the house. The dogs know me—I kept them in a kennel in back of the inn one time when Dr. Matthews went to London. They wouldn’t hurt me. I was on my way up to the house when I saw you moving through the woods. I followed you——”

  “You were in the woods?”

  “I was waiting till later, when everyone was asleep. It was a great stroke of luck, your coming down here like this. It saved me ever so much trouble——”

  “You want to—talk?”

  “I wouldn’t hurt you, Miss Marlow. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’m sorry I had to grab you like that, but if you’d screamed——” He stepped from behind me, moving around until he was a few feet in front of me.

  I could have fled then, but in my high heels I hadn’t a prayer of outrunning him. He would have caught me in no time, and I would have incurred his wrath. Angry, he might resort to violence, those strong hands flying to my throat. His voice was gentle, almost caressing, but I knew from extensive reading that some of the maddest madmen had been gentle, apparently lovable creatures, kind and affectionate one moment, raging lunatics the next. Reason and superior intellect were my only weapons, and I had to employ them carefully.

  “Did you slip the note under my door last night, Charlie?” I asked.

  He nodded. Although we were in darkness, my eyes were accustomed to the night by now and I could see him clearly. His face was sculptured in s
hadow, the planes of his cheekbones light, eyes and jaw dark. His blond hair was silken, curling about his temples and spilling forward in shaggy locks over his forehead. The corners of his mouth quivered, and I suddenly realized that Charlie was as frightened as I was, if not more so. His shoulders were hunched forward, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He was shivering visibly, and in the brown sweater he couldn’t possibly have been cold.

  “It was a warning,” he said. “They——”

  He cut himself short, staring at the ground. My own fear had vanished now. I knew Charlie didn’t intend to do me harm. He was like a frightened child. All around us the night noises rustled, leaves stirring as birds flitted from branch to branch, frogs croaking hoarsely, waves lapping, and there was the constant crooning as wind skimmed over water with the sound of whispers. The mausoleum was almost completely shrouded in mist now, only the base of the tent visible, and the mist was reaching long white fingers towards where we stood.

  Charlie was alert to every sound. He seemed poised for flight. I wondered why he was so frightened.

  “The note,” I prompted. “Why did you write it?”

  “I told you. It was a warning.”

  “A warning? What are you trying to tell me, Charlie?”

  “It’s a plot. You overheard. They—I didn’t want you to get hurt. I slipped the note under your door to warn you. I hoped you’d go away. They know——”

  “You’re not making sense,” I said. “Who are ‘they’? What are they planning to do?”

  “I begged her not to,” he said urgently. “I knew he was a bad ’un. I told her, but she wouldn’t listen. He has her under a spell. She’s fallen for him. She’ll do anything he says——”

  His incoherent urgency was maddening. He was trying to tell me something vastly important, I knew, but he was so frightened that the words came tumbling out in cryptic patterns, making no sense at all. I laid a hand on his arm, trying to calm him.