Mary Roberts Rinehart & Avery Hopwood (7 page)

On the heels of his words came a single, startling bang from the
kitchen quarters—the bang of a slammed door!

Miss Cornelia dropped her newspaper. Lizzie, frankly frightened, gave
a little squeal and moved closer to her mistress. Only Billy remained
impassive but even he looked sharply in the direction whence the sound
had come.

Miss Cornelia was the first of the others to recover her poise.

"Stop that! It was the wind!" she said, a little irritably—the "Stop
that!" addressed to Lizzie who seemed on the point of squealing again.

"I think not wind," said Billy. His very lack of perturbation added
weight to the statement. It made Miss Cornelia uneasy. She took out
her knitting again.

"How long have you lived in this house, Billy?"

"Since Mr. Fleming built."

"H'm." Miss Cornelia pondered. "And this is the first time you have
been disturbed?"

"Last two days only." Billy would have made an ideal witness in a
courtroom. He restricted himself so precisely to answering what was
asked of him in as few words as possible.

Miss Cornelia ripped out a row in her knitting. She took a deep breath.

"What about that face Lizzie said you saw last night at the window?"
she asked in a steady voice.

Billy grinned, as if slightly embarrassed. "Just face—that's all."

"A—man's face?"

He shrugged again.

"Don't know—maybe. It there! It gone!"

Miss Cornelia did not want to believe him—but she did. "Did you go
out after it?" she persisted.

Billy's yellow grin grew wider. "No thanks," he said cheerfully with
ideal succinctness.

Lizzie, meanwhile, had stood first on one foot and then on the other
during the interrogation, terror and morbid interest fighting in her
for mastery. Now she could hold herself in no longer.

"Oh, Miss Neily!" she exploded in a graveyard moan, "last night when
the lights went out I had a token! My oil lamp was full of oil but, do
what I would, it kept going out, too—the minute I shut my eyes out
that lamp would go. There ain't a surer token of death! The Bible
says, 'Let your light shine'—and when a hand you can't see puts your
lights out—good night!"

She ended in a hushed whisper and even Billy looked a trifle
uncomfortable after her climax.

"Well, now that you've cheered us up," began Miss Cornelia undauntedly,
but a long, ominous roll of thunder that rattled the panes in the
French windows drowned out the end of her sentence. Nevertheless she
welcomed the thunder as a diversion. At least its menace was a
physical one—to be guarded against by physical means.

She rose and went over to the French windows. That flimsy bolt! She
parted the curtains and looked out—a flicker of lightning stabbed the
night—the storm must be almost upon them.

"Bring some candles, Billy," she said. "The lights may be going out
any moment—and Billy," as he started to leave, "there's a gentleman
arriving on the last train. After he comes you may go to bed. I'll
wait up for Miss Dale—oh, and Billy," arresting him at the door, "see
that all the outer doors on this floor are locked and bring the keys
here."

Billy nodded and departed. Miss Cornelia took a long breath. Now that
the moment for waiting had passed—the moment for action come—she felt
suddenly indomitable, prepared to face a dozen Bats!

Her feelings were not shared by her maid. "I know what all this
means," moaned Lizzie. "I tell you there's going to be a death, sure!"

"There certainly will be if you don't keep quiet," said her mistress
acidly. "Lock the billiard-room windows and go to bed."

But this was the last straw for Lizzie. A picture of the two long,
dark flights of stairs up which she had to pass to reach her bedchamber
rose before her—and she spoke her mind.

"I am not going to bed!" she said wildly. "I'm going to pack up
tomorrow and leave this house." That such a threat would never be
carried out while she lived made little difference to her—she was
beyond the need of Truth's consolations. "I asked you on my bended
knees not to take this place two miles from a railroad," she went on
heatedly. "For mercy's sake, Miss Neily, let's go back to the city
before it's too late!"

Miss Cornelia was inflexible.

"I'm not going. You can make up your mind to that. I'm going to find
out what's wrong with this place if it takes all summer. I came out to
the country for a rest and I'm going to get it."

"You'll get your heavenly rest!" mourned Lizzie, giving it up. She
looked pitifully at her mistress's face for a sign that the latter
might be weakening—but no such sign came. Instead, Miss Cornelia
seemed to grow more determined.

"Besides," she said, suddenly deciding to share the secret she had
hugged to herself all day, "I might as well tell you, Lizzie. I'm
having a detective sent down tonight from police headquarters in the
city."

"A detective?" Lizzie's face was horrified. "Miss Neily, you're
keeping something from me! You know something I don't know."

"I hope so. I daresay he will be stupid enough. Most of them are. But
at least we can have one proper night's sleep."

"Not I. I trust no man," said Lizzie. But Miss Cornelia had picked up
the paper again.

"'The Bat's last crime was a particularly atrocious one,'" she read.
"'The body of the murdered man...'"

But Lizzie could bear no more.

"Why don't you read the funny page once in a while?" she wailed and
hurried to close the windows in the billiard room. The door leading
into the billiard room shut behind her.

Miss Cornelia remained reading for a moment. Then—was that a sound
from the alcove? She dropped the paper, went into the alcove and stood
for a moment at the foot of the stairs, listening. No—it must have
been imagination. But, while she was here, she might as well put on
the spring lock that bolted the door from the alcove to the terrace.
She did so, returned to the living-room and switched off the lights for
a moment to look out at the coming storm. It was closer now—the
lightning flashes more continuous. She turned on the lights again as
Billy re-entered with three candles and a box of matches.

He put them down on a side table.

"New gardener come," he said briefly to Miss Cornelia's back.

Miss Cornelia turned. "Nice hour for him to get here. What's his
name?"

"Say his name Brook," said Billy, a little doubtful. English names
still bothered him—he was never quite sure of them at first.

Miss Cornelia thought. "Ask him to come in," she said. "And
Billy—where are the keys?"

Billy silently took two keys from his pocket and laid them on the
table. Then he pointed to the terrace door which Miss Cornelia had
just bolted.

"Door up there—spring lock," he said.

"Yes." She nodded. "And the new bolt you put on today makes it fairly
secure. One thing is fairly sure, Billy. If anyone tries to get in
tonight, he will have to break a window and make a certain amount of
noise."

But he only smiled his curious enigmatic smile and went out. And no
sooner had Miss Cornelia seated herself when the door of the billiard
room slammed open suddenly and Lizzie burst into the room as if she had
been shot from a gun—her hair wild—her face stricken with fear.

"I heard somebody yell out in the grounds—away down by the gate!" she
informed her mistress in a loud stage whisper which had a curious note
of pride in it, as if she were not too displeased at seeing her doleful
predictions so swiftly coming to pass.

Miss Cornelia took her by the shoulder—half-startled, half-dubious.

"What did they yell?"

"Just yelled a yell!"

"Lizzie!"

"I heard them!"

But she had cried "Wolf!" too often.

"You take a liver pill," said her mistress disgustedly, "and go to bed."

Lizzie was about to protest both the verdict on her story and the
judgment on herself when the door in the hall was opened by Billy to
admit the new gardener. A handsome young fellow, in his late twenties,
he came two steps into the room and then stood there respectfully with
his cap in his hand, waiting for Miss Cornelia to speak to him.

After a swift glance of observation that gave her food for thought she
did so.

"You are Brooks, the new gardener?"

The young man inclined his head.

"Yes, madam. The butler said you wanted to speak to me."

Miss Cornelia regarded him anew. His hands look soft—for a
gardener's, she thought. And his manners seem much too good for one—
Still—

"Come in," she said briskly. The young man advanced another two steps.
"You're the man my niece engaged in the city this afternoon?"

"Yes, madam." He seemed a little uneasy under her searching scrutiny.
She dropped her eyes.

"I could not verify your references as the Brays are in Canada—" she
proceeded.

The young man took an eager step forward. "I am sure if Mrs. Bray were
here—" he began, then flushed and stopped, twisting his cap.

"Were here?" said Miss Cornelia in a curious voice. "Are you a
professional gardener?"

"Yes." The young man's manner had grown a trifle defiant but Miss
Cornelia's next question followed remorselessly.

"Know anything about hardy perennials?" she said in a soothing voice,
while Lizzie regarded the interview with wondering eyes.

"Oh. yes," but the young man seemed curiously lacking in confidence.
"They—they're the ones that keep their leaves during the winter,
aren't they?"

"Come over here—closer—" said Miss Cornelia imperiously. Once more
she scrutinized him and this time there was no doubt of his discomfort
under her stare.

"Have you had any experience with rubeola?" she queried finally.

"Oh, yes—yes—yes, indeed," the gardener stammered. "Yes."

"And—alopecia?" pursued Miss Cornelia.

The young man seemed to fumble in his mind for the characteristics of
such a flower or shrub.

"The dry weather is very hard on alopecia," he asserted finally, and
was evidently relieved to see Miss Cornelia receive the statement with
a pleasant smile.

"What do you think is the best treatment for urticaria?" she propounded
with a highly professional manner.

It appeared to be a catch-question. The young man knotted his brows.
Finally a gleam of light seemed to come to him.

"Urticaria frequently needs—er—thinning," he announced decisively.

"Needs scratching you mean!" Miss Cornelia rose with a snort of disdain
and faced him. "Young man, urticaria is hives, rubeola is measles, and
alopecia is baldness!" she thundered. She waited a moment for his
defense. None came.

"Why did you tell me you were a professional gardener?" she went on
accusingly. "Why have you come here at this hour of night pretending
to be something you're not?"

By all standards of drama the young man should have wilted before her
wrath, Instead he suddenly smiled at her, boyishly, and threw up his
hands in a gesture of defeat.

"I know I shouldn't have done it!" he confessed with appealing
frankness. "You'd have found me out anyhow! I don't know anything
about gardening. The truth is," his tone grew somber, "I was
desperate! I HAD to have work!"

The candor of his smile would have disarmed a stonier-hearted person
than Miss Cornelia. But her suspicions were still awake.

"'That's all, is it?"

"That's enough when you're down and out." His words had an
unmistakable accent of finality. She couldn't help wanting to believe
him, and yet, he wasn't what he had pretended to be—and this night of
all nights was no time to take people on trust!

"How do I know you won't steal the spoons?" she queried, her voice
still gruff.

"Are they nice spoons?" he asked with absurd seriousness.

She couldn't help smiling at his tone. "Beautiful spoons."

Again that engaging, boyish manner of his touched something in her
heart.

"Spoons are a great temptation to me, Miss Van Gorder—but if you'll
take me, I'll promise to leave them alone."

"That's extremely kind of you," she answered with grim humor, knowing
herself beaten. She went over to ring for Billy.

Lizzie took the opportunity to gain her ear.

"I don't trust him, Miss Neily! He's too smooth!" she whispered
warningly.

Miss Cornelia stiffened. "I haven't asked for your opinion, Lizzie,"
she said.

But Lizzie was not to be put off by the Van Gorder manner.

"Oh," she whispered, "you're just as bad as all the rest of 'em. A
good-looking man comes in the door and your brains fly out the window!"

Miss Cornelia quelled her with a gesture and turned back to the young
man. He was standing just where she had left him, his cap in his
hands—but, while her back had been turned, his eyes had made a
stealthy survey of the living-room—a survey that would have made it
plain to Miss Cornelia, if she had seen him, that his interest in the
Fleming establishment was not merely the casual interest of a servant
in his new place of abode. But she had not seen and she could have
told nothing from his present expression.

"Have you had anything to eat lately?" she asked in a kindly voice.

He looked down at his cap. "Not since this morning," he admitted as
Billy answered the bell.

Miss Cornelia turned to the impassive Japanese. "Billy, give this man
something to eat and then show him where he is to sleep."

She hesitated. The gardener's house was some distance from the main
building, and with the night and the approaching storm she felt her own
courage weakening. Into the bargain, whether this stranger had lied
about his gardening or not, she was curiously attracted to him.

"I think," she said slowly, "that I'll have you sleep in the house
here, at least for tonight. Tomorrow we can—the housemaid's room,
Billy," she told the butler. And before their departure she held out a
candle and a box of matches.