Naked Once More (17 page)

There was hope of fresh inspiration in the boxes awaiting her perusal. Craig Two had explained the situation in the single conversation Jacqueline had had with him since the signing of the contract. He had been unable to reach her directly since her telephone number was unlisted. Booton had refused to give it to him—following Jacqueline’s orders—and when she returned his call he was audibly annoyed by her “unreasonable” attitude. Kathleen had been much more accommodating. Kathleen had never suffered from writers’ paranoia. Kathleen—

… had been a wimp and too damned sweet to live. Naturally Jacqueline didn’t say that. She let Craig get it out of his system, and then said mildly, “This number won’t be in use after next week anyway. What did you want, Mr. Craig?”

He wanted to tell her about Kathleen’s working papers, which he did at unnecessary length. At his insistence, her important papers had been sealed and stored after she disappeared. They were now the property of the heirs. St. John had suggested she might want to look at them. If she did, he would appreciate her letting him know so that he could have the boxes of papers made available to her.

If she did? Jacqueline managed not to swear. “I want to see everything, Mr. Craig. What’s in those boxes?”

Craig didn’t know. The contents had come from a filing cabinet unhelpfully labeled “Working Papers.” He assumed they included some of the early drafts of
Naked in the Ice,
but it had not been his responsibility to examine them in detail, he was not Kathleen’s literary executor, and furthermore…

After some discussion they agreed that he would have the cartons transported to Kathleen’s cottage. Jacqueline firmly vetoed his first suggestion, that she examine them in his office. When she explained that it would take days to go through the papers, and that she would need a lot of space, for sorting and arranging them, he was forced to agree. However, he did not sound pleased.

Jacqueline slammed the phone down with more force than was strictly necessary. There had been no reason for Craig to call her. The papers belonged to St. John and the other heirs; the disposal of them was no longer Craig’s responsibility. She wondered why Booton had not mentioned the existence of the papers. They were potentially quite valuable. The original manuscript of Kathleen’s book, her working notes… But Booton had no financial interest in the manuscript itself, only in the royalties from the published book.

Ensuing distractions had prevented her from giving much thought to the matter, but as she drove through the morning mists toward Gondal, she allowed herself to hope the papers might include some clues about the sequel. Even reading through the rough drafts of
Naked One
would be helpful—noting the changes Kathleen had made, observing the transition from the original faulty prose to the polished precision of the finished book.

Having seen the filthy condition of Kathleen’s cottage, she was wearing jeans and several layers of sweaters over an old shirt. Her hair was twisted into a tight coil and covered with a scarf. She hoped her lack of glamour would get the point across to St. John, though she would have scorned to make herself unattractive for that reason alone. The messages some men professed to read in sexy clothes and makeup were pure wishful thinking. By their archaic standards, the only garment that didn’t give them a reasonable excuse for rape was the all-enveloping robe and face veil of fundamentalist Moslem countries.

St. John’s face fell visibly as he took in her ensemble and the heavy sweater that covered her from neck to mid-thigh. He rallied, however, and offered her a chair, a cup of coffee, and a cozy chat.

Planted firm as a tree on the front porch, Jacqueline refused to enter the house. “I want to get right to work, St. John. You needn’t go with me; the weather isn’t very nice. Just give me the key.”

St. John wouldn’t hear of it. At least she must wait until Marjorie could fix a carafe of coffee for her to take along. He would carry it for her—

“I brought a thermos,” Jacqueline said, indicating her bulging purse. “At the risk of sounding rude, let me explain something to you, St. John. The only way I can work is alone, solo, by myself. From what I’ve heard, I gather Kathleen wasn’t so insistent about privacy. Neither was Jane Austen. But I’m not Kathleen and I certainly am not Jane Austen. If you want me to get this outline done in a reasonable length of time, you’ll have to leave me strictly alone—and, if you can, keep other people from bothering me.”

Looking as hurt as a toad could look, St. John assured her that he understood. He insisted, however, on accompanying her. “After today you can come and go as you please, if that is what you want. I am only anxious to make certain everything is in proper order.”

Feeling a trifle remorseful, Jacqueline agreed. St. John attired himself in a navy-blue raincoat the size and shape of a tent, opened an umbrella, and escorted her down the porch steps.

Since he was a few inches shorter than she, the umbrella kept hitting Jacqueline on the top of the head. She refrained from complaint; St. John had taken her admittedly brusque lecture meekly, and his intentions were—she supposed—good. “How is Mrs. Darcy?” she asked.

“Not well. Not well at all. This is not one of her good days.”

Jacqueline bit her lip and managed to keep quiet. She had been on the verge of asking St. John what he had done to diagnose and ameliorate his mother’s condition. That’s none of your business, she reminded herself. He’s probably done everything possible. There’s no reason to assume he hasn’t.

If Kathleen’s cottage had possessed a wistful, forlorn charm in the beauty of springtime, it looked absolutely grisly on a rainy autumn day. No flowers redeemed its desolation. The interior was even worse. A single naked light bulb in the ceiling gave enough illumination to show the dust and the cobwebs and the streaks of mold on the plastered walls, but not enough to prevent eyestrain.

St. John clucked. “I told Marjorie to clean this place. And I didn’t anticipate that the weather would be so dreary. I could fetch a lamp from the house—”

“Never mind,” Jacqueline said. “I won’t be—” She checked herself. She could not tell until she had looked over the papers how much time she would have to spend in the cottage, but she was determined not to spend any more than was absolutely necessary. She couldn’t work here. Aside from the other inconveniences she had already considered, it was the most cheerless, depressing place she had ever seen. Even a ghost would have been better company than this utter nothingness.

She smiled at St. John. “I’m all set, then. Thank you so much. May I keep the key?”

“Yes, certainly. I would be delighted to have you join me—us—for lunch, but I suppose you have a sandwich in that purse too.”

The touch of humor in his voice rather surprised Jacqueline. “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. I daren’t allow myself any distractions, you see.”

“Could I induce you to stop by for a cup of tea or a cocktail before you leave?”

“Well… Thank you, I will.”

Cheered by this promise, St. John removed himself. Jacqueline sighed. If only she could stop feeling sorry for people! St. John had behaved better than she had expected; he must be very, very anxious to see that outline completed. And it wasn’t entirely his fault that he was such a pompous, unattractive, smug hypocrite.

She reminded herself that it wasn’t her fault either. Going to the window, she watched the bobbing hemisphere of his umbrella until it disappeared around the house. Then she followed, congratulating herself on her foresight in having brought several empty cartons. Removing them from the trunk of the car, she went back to the cottage, darting from bush to shrub to hedge in case St. John took a notion to glance out the window. She would—of course!—ask his permission before she removed any of the papers, but it would be simpler to present him with a fait accompli in the shape of a filled carton instead of debating the issue beforehand.

The cottage seemed much farther from the house than it had the first time. I’d go mad in white linen if I had to stay here, Jacqueline thought, squelching through puddles. A strident scream made her stop and pivot, her heart jumping, before she located the source—a big black crow, diving toward some invisible quarry. And what was the dark silhouette perched atop a dead pine, like a hieratic symbol of death…? A turkey buzzard. How nice.

She dumped the cartons on the floor and stood, hands on hips, planning her strategy. The two boxes containing Kathleen’s papers had been placed in front of the fireplace, next to the tattered chair. The tape that had sealed them had been cut. She wouldn’t need the pocket knife she always carried with her. Someone had been considerate—or curious. They were the property of the heirs, she reminded herself. But she doubted that St. John, or any of the others, were capable of evaluating the contents of those boxes.

She peeled off the outermost sweater and tossed it onto the chair, an action that produced a significant rustling and a couple of agitated squeaks from within the ruin. Poor mice; they hadn’t realized until then that they were not alone. “Relax,” Jacqueline said. “I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me.”

Then she saw something that struck her with wholly disproportionate queasiness. On the seat of the chair was a sprinkling of short black hairs, which clung stubbornly to the roughened fabric. The chair must have been the favorite resting place of Kathleen’s cat. To think those hairs would still be there, after seven years.… The mice would not have dared to revel in the old chair then. She took the precaution of pushing the boxes out into the middle of the floor, away from the inhabitants of the chair, before she opened the first of them.

Several hours later she rose stiffly to her feet, stretched, yawned, and decided it was time for a break. The weather had cleared, as promised; a dusty streak of sunlight stretched across the worn wooden flooring. Jacqueline considered her dirty hands and went in search of a bathroom.

A door in the wall opposite the fireplace led to the second of the two rooms on the first floor. Jacqueline had wondered at the absence of books and bookshelves in Kathleen’s study; the opening of the door explained the omission. The room had been Kathleen’s library, with built-in bookcases filling every available space. The sight of the tattered volumes—mildewed, mouse-nibbled, rotted with damp—wrung a groan from the ex-librarian and lover of books. One day she would have to look through them, salvage what she could, consider the titles. There was no surer way of becoming acquainted with someone than through his or her library. She knew she didn’t dare start now; books were too distracting, she wouldn’t just look at them, she would start reading, and the rest of the day would pass like seconds.

The rows of shelves were broken only by windows and doors and by a narrow stair at the back. It was no handsome ornamental staircase, only a steep flight of wooden steps with a handrail along the open side. The bathroom must be upstairs. Jacqueline began to climb, treading gently; the stairs were probably in no better repair than anything else in the cottage.

It was well for her that she didn’t bound up them with her usual vim and vigor. As her weight pressed the second step from the top, it tilted like a seesaw, tipping her toward the rail and the drop below. Jacqueline caught at the railing. With a splintering crack, it broke into several sections and the lower two-thirds fell away.

As she followed after it, Jacqueline made a last desperate grab at the short segment of railing that remained. The broken edge dug into her palm and the screws that held it to the wall held for only a second; but that was long enough for her to twist around so that she fell feet-first instead of head-first. Her ankle bent under her and she sprawled at full length atop the broken sections of railing.

A lesser woman might have burst into tears or started screaming for help. Jacqueline’s only comment was unprintable; after a few breathless seconds, she sat up and inspected the damage. A ragged, bleeding cut across her palm, surrounded by imbedded splinters, like a dark aureole; a twisted ankle. She flexed it experimentally and decided it wasn’t sprained.

She continued her search for the bathroom, all the more imperative now, and was relieved to find she didn’t have to attempt the stairs a second time. A door in the back wall of the library led to an annex containing the necessary facilities. The water ran rusty for several minutes before it cleared, and the medicine chest was empty except for spiderwebs, but St. John had thoughtfully supplied a roll of toilet paper. Jacqueline smiled sourly. What a guy.

On her way back to the study and the first-aid supplies in her trusty purse, she paused to inspect the remains of the railing. The wood itself seemed sound, with no signs of rot or termite damage. The breaks had occurred at the places where the separate boards had been screwed and glued together. The carpentry was amateurish, but serviceable; it had not been designed to withstand the impact of a heavy falling object. Jacqueline wriggled the screws experimentally. They were certainly loose now, and there was fresh sawdust in the holes; impossible to tell whether that had been the case before the weight of her body had finished the job of destruction.

The step that had tilted was another matter. Jacqueline ascended the stairs on her hands and knees, keeping close to the wall. The steps themselves were nothing more elaborate than boards nailed onto the supports at either end. In one case, however, there were no nails in the end farthest from the wall, and the board-step was a good inch shorter than the others. Instead of resting on the upright, it was flush with its interior side, with nothing under it to support it.

Jacqueline’s lips pursed critically as she examined the unsupported end of the step. This job was worse than amateurish, it was downright sloppy. If she had done it, she would have at least taken time to smear dirt and dust onto the cut surface in order to make its freshness less obvious.

She crawled back down the stairs. It took a good ten minutes to pry the splinters out of her hand, with the aid of a needle from her sewing kit. She splashed on iodine (none of these newfangled creams and sprays for her; if it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t work) and spread a couple of Band-Aids across the gash. It would be her right hand, of course; but after flexing her fingers she decided the injury wasn’t severe enough to limit her ability to write.