Night of the Candles (22 page)

She descended the stairs with a slow but firm step. The smell of frying bacon hung in the air, and the doors closing off the ends of the central hallway had been thrown open. Still she could find no one about, though she peeped into the dining room, the sitting room, and the parlor.

The brilliant gleam of sunlight drew her out onto the gallery. The air was cool, making her draw her shawl closer about her shoulders, but a softness in the atmosphere hinted at a warm midday as the sun climbed higher. She moved across the gallery to the steps, keeping a wary eye out for the huge watchdog who sometimes made his bed on the sun-warmed floor at this time of day. The brick walk with the gate at the end beckoned. A walk in the fresh air seemed a good idea. It might clear away the last vestiges of her headache while giving her, at the same time, an opportunity to be alone to think. The dog was not in sight. She would chance it.

At the end of the walk, with one hand on the gate, she went still. The sound of a low growl raised the fine hairs on her arms and drew her gaze irresistibly to the corner of the house.

Cerberus, his curious marbled eyes fastened on her face and the fur ruff around his massive neck raised, stalked into view. The muscles beneath his dull gray coat rippled, tightening for a lunge before he was checked by the weight of a hand. Crazy Carl, walking beside him, did no more than place long gnarled fingers on his neck, but it was enough.

Amanda took a deep, trembling breath, her lips moving in a feeble attempt at a smile. She cleared her throat.

“Good-morning.”

Carl stared at her in what appeared to be total surprise.

“Morning,” he muttered, dropping his head, kicking at the ground with the toe of his shoe. Abruptly he looked up again. “All right?”

“Yes, I’m very well.”

“I saw you yesterday.”

“You saw me?”

“At the church.”

“Then you were there.”

He nodded, a smile slowly moving over his face. “They all ran into the woods, even Jason.”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t see me.”

“Not … not at all?”

Shaking his head, he smiled again, then with a quick, childish swing of emotion he frowned. “I saw the wagon turn over.”

Wagon? He must mean the gig, Amanda thought. “Did you see … whoever it was that threw the sweet gum balls at the horse?”

He stared at her without blinking. “Other side.”

“The other side?” she asked patiently.

“Other side of the churchyard. Them.”

“Oh, I see. You were in the woods on the other side of the churchyard from me?”

He gave a quick nod. When she did not immediately begin to speak again, he looked about him and then, with a word to the dog, went to sit on the steps with Cerberus at his knee.

Slowly, thoughtfully, Amanda retraced her footsteps. After a moment’s hesitation she sat down on the far end of the step.

Carl had pulled his begrimed cloth bag into his lap as he sat, and now his long fingers, with their nails thick and yellow as cow’s horn, played with the flap. With her eyes on his fingers, Amanda said slowly.

“Who would want to hurt me?”

“Miss Sophia,” he answered promptly, “maybe Theo, maybe that other man.”

Surprise at the list held her quiet. Then she asked, “Why?”

“Miss Sophia because you’re pretty and young and Jason watches you. Theo for his sister. The other man…”

“Nathaniel?” Her voice held disbelief. “But he has no reason.”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have some idea. You can’t accuse someone for no reason.”

“He is afraid. He has something to lose.”

“Oh, but…” she began, then stopped. He could lose her … and her money. Was Sophia right then? Was she too stupid to see that Nathaniel cared more for material things than he did her? Was that why he had come after her so quickly? No, she could not condemn him wholly on the supposition of a wild man. She was letting her fears run away with her.

“Marta is afraid,” he conceded as he leaned to scratch behind the ears of the dog.

It was ridiculous. She was listening to this man and weighing what he said as if his strangeness gave him the wisdom of an oracle. But though she chided herself silently, she did not leave him.

“Carl,” she said thoughtfully, “where did you sleep last night?”

He slanted her a secretive glance. “You always ask me that.”

“And … do you ever tell me?” she asked carefully.

He grinned quickly and turned back to the dog.

“You couldn’t have been in the house.”

“No?”

“It would have been unwise. They were angry about the grave.”

A cloud seemed to cross his face. He went still, then sat up straight, putting his hands on his cloth bag.

“Did you sleep in the woods?” she persisted. “Did you hear the men who rode up to Monteigne in the middle of the night?”

“Men in sheets. Silly.”

“No doubt, but also dangerous.”

“They never see me,” he told her, a smile she could only describe as superior flitting across his thin face.

“But you see them?”

He nodded. “I see them.”

“Do you know who they are?” She could not resist the question.

“Some.” He shifted, darting her another quick glance.

“Do you know the one who rides at night covered by a sheet and comes home to Monteigne to stable his horse?”

“I see him, he don’t see me. When he comes, I go into the woods. Safe there.”

That was not the answer she sought. “Was he with the riders who came last night?”

Carl’s brow wrinkled as he thought. His lips moved as if in silent speech, and he tugged at his gray-streaked beard. It was long minutes before he brought an answer forth. “Saw him, after you, all the others, asleep. Watched him walk down the road a way, not long, not short. Talked with the men in sheets. Laughed. Walked back.”

A feeling of revulsion ran through her. “Are you saying this man met his friends away from Monteigne, arranged for them to come, and then walked back to the house so … so he could be there, on hand, when the visit of the nightriders was made? That’s terrible! Who was it? Which man met the riders in sheets?”

He did not answer. He stared out over the fence toward the drive, his eyes narrowed. He looked from side to side, then he scrabbled in his bag and brought out something wrapped in a greasy rag, which he offered to her.

“What is it?” she asked, accepting it reluctantly.

He made a motion with his hand, and, remembering the polished stones and the brass button she had found in her room before, she began to unwrap the odd gift.

As the rag fell back she drew in her breath. “Why, it’s the collar of Harmonia! Where did you get this? What are you doing with it?”

She turned on him, unconsciously accusing, her voice sharp.

He jumped up and, grabbing the necklace, stuffed it into his bag again.

“Here, wait! That’s my necklace, mine, do you hear me? Give it back!” She got to her feet, her voice rising as he danced out of her reach.

She took a step forward, and he retreated, but then he stopped, gazing at her with wide eyes. “You … you’re not my Madame Amelia. The box was there … under the dirt. You’re not my Madame. Where is she? Where … is … she?”

He was screaming now, capering as he had that night below her window, in a maniacal rage. The dog stood still, but a low growl began in its throat as it sensed the direction of Carl’s fury.

Then she was aware of men running, of shouting. Carl turned his head and saw Theo and Nathaniel pelting toward him from the direction of the barn. A grim amusement seemed to touch him, then with easy strength he ran to the iron fence, placed a hand between the spikes of its top and vaulted over it. Long before they had reached Amanda’s side, he had merged with the shadows of the woods.

Once again she was in the position of having to explain what had taken place. She was obliged to answer a number of exasperated, and exasperating, questions and to endure, Sophia’s expression that said as plainly as if she had spoken that she thought Amanda was asking for attention. It might have been an act of cowardice to leave them for the quiet and safety of her room; it had instead the feeling of self-preservation.

“You have a visitor.”

Sophia, stepping into Amanda’s bedchamber to make the announcement, seemed unusually subdued.

Amanda closed her book and set it aside. “Who is it?”

“Father Metoyer.”

“Oh?” Automatically Amanda smoothed her hair as she slipped out the door past the other woman.

“He is the priest for the church we visited yesterday,” Sophia supplied, turning toward the stairs. “He says he spoke to you as you were leaving.”

“Yes, of course.”

“It is kind of him to call, but then he was often here for Amelia, and I expect you remind him of her. She had a great interest in theological matters just before she died, you know. Not unusual, under the circumstances. Deathbed repentance is so affecting, isn’t it?”

There was no time to answer that cynical jibe, for they were at the parlor door. Murmuring something about refreshment, Sophia moved away down the hall, leaving Amanda to greet the priest alone.

Father Metoyer comes forward at her entrance to clasp her hand. “I am so happy to see you looking well, my child. I heard of your accident and was horrified that it should have happened so soon after I left you.”

“Thank you. It was good of you to come. Won’t you sit down?”

Amanda indicated the settee while she took one of the Federal armchairs. When they were seated Father Metoyer shook his head. “I cannot get over how much you look like your cousin. I find it uncanny, almost as if she had returned.” At the look which moved over her face, he hurried on, “Pay no heed to me. I have a habit from many years of riding from place to place with only my horse to talk to of thinking out loud. I meant no harm, I assure you.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” she said, forcing herself to smile.

He tilted his head slightly to one side. “Other than surface similarity, I don’t believe you are like Madame Monteigne. Hers was not a gentle personality, nor a restful one.”

“Not gentle?”

“No. I say that because she fought so hardily against her illness. She wanted badly to triumph over it.”

“Then you do think that she was truly ill?” Amanda asked, her every muscle tense as she waited for his answer.

“Certainly,” the priest answered, his eyes puzzled.

“You do not think there is any possibility that her illness was feigned, or even imaginary?”

“In my vocation we deal with human nature. I would say that your cousin would not have had the patience to feign such a lengthy illness. She enjoyed being active too much to submit willingly to the restriction of an invalid’s bed. As for imagining it, no I have seen much pain, and hers was real, though she tried for as long as possible to smile and make little of it.”

Amanda chose her next words with care. “Has it ever occurred to you that my cousin may have found her pain too much to bear, that she put a stop to it in the only way she could?”

“Suicide? If I had thought so, my child, Madame Monteigne would not be buried in hallowed ground. Come, what is this? Why do you torture yourself with such questions? Your cousin was the victim of a malignant growth in her head. This we must accept.”

“Must we? Since I came to Monteigne I have heard so many different tales of how and why she died that I can accept nothing. I have given you some of them in the hope that you would be able to help me decide what is, and is not, possible. There is still one other I have not mentioned.”

“And that is?” His face was blank, his eyes wary.

“That she was killed, murdered by degrees with some form of poison or addictive medicine, and then given a final overdose.”

Long seconds ticked past before he answered. “I understand that you have been injured twice since coming to Monteigne,” he said.

“That is true,” she answered, her voice stiff as she thought she saw the trend of his question.

“Is it possible you have let these accidents influence your thinking? I ask this for I cannot believe you would stay here if you believed in your heart that your cousin was murdered. Because if she were, it is all too likely that your own accidents were not so … accidental.”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“And yet, you are still here, you have not called in the sheriff. Therefore, you do not really believe what you are saying can be true.”

Was he right, or was it just that she did not want to believe it? “Perhaps not,” she said.

“In any case, your cousin felt death was coming near, a phenomenon one associates with natural causes, not with murder. She repented of the great wrong she had committed and received absolution. Though I knew, or at least suspected, that she embraced the Catholic religion solely for the sake of her husband on the eve of their marriage, and though I realized that her character was not unflawed, I venture to believe that she found peace in God as the end drew near.”

It was apparent that the priest did not wish to entertain the idea that he might have failed a member of his flock in so desperate a situation. “Great wrong?” she inquired.

“Forgive me, I should not have used that phrase, would not if I had taken proper thought.”

“Yes,” Amanda murmured, “the seal of me confessional.”

“Yes.”

The priest did not stay long after that, pausing only for the time it took to drink a cup of black coffee and eat one of the pastries Proserpine provided. Amanda watched him go with a tight feeling in her chest. Had Amelia found his kindly, practical presence a comfort? It was possible, if she had never begun to suspect that someone intended to ease her way to death. But if she had, she must have looked in vain for aid from a man so good in soul that he refused to consider even the possibility of evil.

What was this great sin Amelia was supposed to have confessed? Did it, perhaps, have a bearing on the manner of her death? It was useless to ask herself such questions. There was little hope of gaining answers when they were withheld from her by a man’s solemn vow and by death.

“What did he want?” Sophia asked. She did not trouble to hide either her curiosity or the fact that she had been hiding in the depths of the hallway, waiting for him to leave.