The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2) Page 24

  “He never did say he saw her,” I admitted, ruing the fact that I hadn’t pressed him on the exact wording. Reginald would have made him say it.

  “If the hospital is lying to Mr. Kuddle, they’ll lie to anyone,” Zelda said.

  “Where’s Tallulah?”

  “She went to buy Camilla some toiletries. She needs a toothbrush, clean clothes, those things. Tallulah has an eye for clothes. Whatever she picks out will be a perfect fit.”

  “Where’s Reginald?” I had hoped he might be in the kitchen or somewhere nearby.

  “Haven’t seen him since this morning.” Zelda was instantly alert. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” I needed a word alone with her, but I didn’t want to make it so obvious. “Camilla, would you see what groceries we might need to pick up?”

  “Of course.”

  If she knew I was trying to get rid of her, she was gracious enough not to let on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “What’s going on?” Zelda asked as I maneuvered her to a corner in the parlor.

  “The state police have been called in to find Camilla. They’re calling it a kidnapping.”

  “At least you didn’t take her across state lines. You’d be in real trouble then.” Zelda lit a cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring.

  “David, Reginald, and I could go to prison.”

  She realized I was genuinely worried. “I swear to you this will be okay. Camilla has agreed that she wanted to leave Bryce. No matter what the dragon does or says, Camilla was a voluntary commitment. Camilla’s word will count more than Maude’s.”

  But we both knew Camilla was still a minor. Maude was in charge of her.

  “Let’s focus on clearing Roswell House and setting the manacles on David. As in marriage, not getting arrested,” Zelda added.

  I nodded. “I’m going there now to look for Reginald.” Even saying the words made my stomach jittery. The things I’d learned about the history of the house, of the people who’d built and created it, left me with a deep concern. “If you see him, please tell him we need to talk.”

  “You’re really worried about your partner.” Zelda stubbed out the cigarette in a beautiful leaded-glass ashtray.

  “I am. What if the men who tried to stop us last night have him? I mean, he is driving your car. They might have recognized it.”

  “I hadn’t considered that.” She began to pace. “I can call around. Where could he have gone?”

  “Try the sheriff’s office. He might have stopped in there.” I spun through possibilities in my mind. “Probate office. Dr. Abbott.”

  “I’ll take care of all of that.”

  “When you finish on the phone, you might want to take Camilla somewhere else. If Jason Kuddle’s already sniffing around here, looking to make a buck off finding her, others will be here, too.”

  “I’ll take her to the county club. I know the kitchen workers, and they’ll hide us. No one will look there.”

  It was a brilliant plan. Never in a million years would Maude think to look among the servants for her daughter. Zelda had plenty of marbles, and she shot a mean game. “Perfect. If I don’t call you or come by, meet me at Roswell House at five. David will be free then, and if I can rouse the spirits, it will be easier after dark. Camilla has to want this. It could be dangerous.”

  “We’ll be there. As soon as Tallulah gets back, we’ll make an escape from here.” Zelda was energized by the danger. I wished for a moment that I had a tenth of her courage.

  “Be careful.” I started toward the door, then called out. “I’ll see you in a bit, Camilla.”

  “Yes.” She came out of the kitchen. “Are you done talking about me, then?”

  Zelda laughed out loud. “We were planning your wedding, which will take place as soon as Roswell House is emptied of the spooks and haints. Tallulah, Raissa, and I will be your maid and matrons of honor, and Reginald will give you away.”

  “I’m more than ready.” Camilla displayed a calm that I envied. “Be careful, though. I know you’re risking a lot for me.”

  “I’ll take care. Now I’m off.” If Reginald wasn’t at Roswell House, I didn’t know what I would do. I had the key, and he didn’t have one. It didn’t make sense he would be there, but I had to check, on the off chance he’d gone there for something.

  I felt as if I was spinning my wheels, rushing from one location to another, missing the important things in my haste to dash somewhere else. I wondered what Bernard and David had uncovered in the safe-deposit box. David would have no way to find me, even if the secret warranted such action. I had his car.

  My plan was to check at Roswell House, then return David’s car. Then I would either wait at the bank, the Greystone Hotel, or have someone drive me to the Sayre house, which was very near the country club. I could walk from there.

  As I drove toward Roswell House, my foot eased from the gas of its own volition. I was afraid. There was no point denying it, especially not to myself. The house scared me. I’d been afraid of the entities in Caoin House, especially the anger of one particular ghost. But I’d never been afraid of the house. Roswell was different. It was as if the foundation of the house had been soaked in darkness and held it, embraced it into its wooden bones.

  I pulled into the front yard, amazed by how much more of the lawn had been cleared. I was very aware that I was alone. The workmen were nowhere about, sent away in preparation for tonight’s efforts. If something bad happened, there would be no one to rescue me. There was no sign of Zelda’s car, and I was tempted to merely turn around and leave. But I thought to open the front door and call to Reginald—just to be sure he hadn’t hidden the car and gone inside to search for something.

  None of us knew if we’d been revealed as Camilla’s liberators, and we all needed to use precautions, so it wasn’t unreasonable that Reginald might have left Zelda’s car beneath a good cover. I pulled David’s car to the back, behind a hedge, and got out.

  The sun was so hot and bright that my eyes failed to register any color in the landscape. Tints of brown spread before me, the lush lawn now a dead zone. I’d stepped into a sepia-tone photograph.

  Or else the house was playing tricks on me.

  The minute I thought it, I wished I hadn’t. An electric current of fear shot through me, and I had a sense that the house suddenly pulsed. Something alive but not human pumped through its timbers. And it knew I was on the premises.

  I’d neglected my writing while working this case in Montgomery, but I couldn’t stop my mind from turning to Margaret Oliphant’s marvelously creepy story “The Open Door.” Roswell House was silent, unlike the servants’ quarters in her tale. But the common denominator was the child who suffered from “brain fever.” There was a striking resemblance to Camilla’s troubles. She, too, had been diagnosed with a malady of the brain. But she had no loving father to protect and champion her. Camilla’s father was spineless. If Camilla were to be saved, she had only her friends to do it.

  I walked among the plants and shrubs with their brown leaves, knowing my sight played tricks on me. Another tale came to me, one far older than the Victorian stories I loved. In “Sleeping Beauty,” a wicked witch generated an enchanted forest of brambles and thorny bushes around a castle to prevent the prince from getting inside and reaching his princess. Something similarly wicked was at work in Roswell House.

  How was it possible that David had come here repeatedly to check on workmen—and that the workmen had come every day—and no one had sensed anything sinister? The truth was, I hadn’t picked up on anything at first. I’d walked through the rooms, but I hadn’t suspected the power of the residing entity. I understood why now. The house had played with us. It had hidden what it truly contained, waiting.

  I slipped around the side of the house, feeling as if it watched my every move. My eyes ached from the bright glare of the sun. When I got to the front steps, I paused to gather my courage. I would not go inside. I would open the door and call to
Reginald.

  A soft creaking came to me, and I looked up to see a lantern hanging from the ceiling spinning madly. Before I could react, it fell, missing me by inches. Glass shattered, and a shard flew into my bare calf. I cried out and stumbled back, finally catching myself before I fell off the porch. Blood ran down my leg into my shoe, the jagged glass still stuck in my muscle. I gritted my teeth and pulled it out.

  The wound wasn’t deadly, but it hurt, and it was only the first skirmish. There would be more to come. Whatever controlled Roswell House would fight us. I grasped the key and walked to the door. Before I could touch it, the door inched open, creaking as if the hinges hadn’t been oiled in a decade. I called out to Reginald. “Are you in there?”

  He didn’t answer, and I worried that the house had lured him inside, maybe had him trapped. The house was sentient. I believed it now more than ever. It was aware of me, and it wanted something from me. “Reginald! If you’re in there, come out right now.”

  The house sighed. I felt it, the rush of expelled air. A soft scuffling sound came to me from inside. My worst fears rose to the surface. Was my partner inside, injured?

  “Reginald!” Fear made my voice shrill. “Answer me!”

  Scuttling turned to pounding, and I could imagine that someone bumped against a wall in an effort to get my attention. I listened, the door half-open as the sun burned into me. The blood on my leg had dried, the pain subsiding to a dull throb, but it was a reminder of what could happen. I didn’t want to go inside.

  “If you’re in there, let me know or I’m leaving.”

  The thudding grew more frantic. Someone was in there and heard me. Whoever it was understood that I was going away and was frantic to stop me from leaving. The workmen had been sent away. Since I knew it wasn’t David, I strongly suspected it was Reginald. The house had opened to him—the front door hadn’t even been closed—and he’d stepped inside. And something had ambushed him.

  I could drive back to town and get help—or I could find Reginald and save him. There wasn’t a choice. If my partner was in the house, I couldn’t leave without him. I had to go inside.

  My foot inched toward the threshold, unwilling to obey my brain’s command to move forward.

  “No.”

  The word came from behind me. I spun to find the twins standing in the middle of the front lawn. Their dresses were clean, freshly laundered, and free of any trace of blood or death. They were pretty girls in their Sunday best; the blue and green of their dresses and the matching bows in their curly hair were the only colors in the brown landscape.

  “Don’t go inside.” They spoke with one voice, a fact that sent a chill spinning through me.

  “I have to. My friend is in there.” I put my hand on the doorjamb to steady myself. “I can’t leave him.”

  The knocking—from where?—became louder now, more frantic than ever. What sounded like a muffled “Help” came from somewhere in the house.

  “Don’t go inside.” They were suddenly closer. “She’s a tricky one, she is.”

  I didn’t want to enter the house. My legs demanded that I run, and I held my ground by sheer will. I couldn’t risk leaving Reginald behind, injured and in need of my assistance. “I have to search for him. He’s my friend. Who are you afraid of?”

  They were suddenly in the doorway, blocking me. “She’s a dark mistress. Don’t go inside.” They were so identical, I couldn’t see a single difference. They were within touching distance, and a bone-chilling cold came off them. My fingers ached, and my breath frosted.

  “After I find Reginald, I’ll try to help you.”

  Their eyes rolled up in their heads, revealing only the whites. “Go away.” Jagged red lines appeared at their throats. They widened into horrible gashes, and blood poured out. “Go . . .” Blood bubbled at their throats as they spoke.

  “I’m going to find out who hurt you. I’ll find out, and I’ll do what I can to put you to rest.”

  I stepped through them and went into the house. The temperature dropped at least ten degrees, and the house was flooded with colors. The pale peach of the plastered hallway and the beautiful shadings of gold-and-amber oak from the polished floor glowed in the sunlight that filtered through newly hung lace drapes. A lovely Turkish rug had been spread in the parlor, and furniture in rich maroon tapestry had been put in place. A heavy sideboard contained a Chinese vase and two sculptures. Brocade pillows were cast about a sofa and two wing chairs. The workmen had been busy.

  “Girls?” I turned back, but they hadn’t followed. They’d disappeared. The thumping had stopped, and the house was eerily quiet.

  “Reginald?” I sounded like a young girl. “Reginald! If you’re in here, say or do something.” My voice was slightly better, more forceful.

  Only silence answered me.

  I stepped into the foyer and stopped between the two mirrors that provided endless reflections of me. The story was that one could see the past in one mirror and the future in the other. I knew better than to look, but I couldn’t resist.

  The mirror to my left gave me only my own reflection: a white-faced young woman in a slim gray skirt, blouse, and cloche hat. My red lipstick looked startling against my pale skin. Dark curls peeked out from beneath my hat, and to my relief, when I reached up to tuck them back under my hat, my image did the same. I’d half expected my reflection to take on a life of its own. When it behaved normally, a soft chuckle of relief escaped.

  Nothing moved in the house. Not a sound or a sigh or a whisper. If someone had been pounding earlier, he now was quiet. The young girls had vanished without a trace or any attempt to harm me. I had to accept that Reginald wasn’t in the house. No one was. I’d spooked myself and had nothing to show for it except a sweat-stained blouse. Zelda and Tallulah would laugh at me for being such a goose. I bolstered my courage with such silly thoughts.

  Movement in my periphery made me turn to look in the mirror to my right, and I froze. It was my image that gazed back, but a thin red line sliced across my throat. Blood trickled out, and then began to flow more freely, running into the white of my blouse. The mirror image made a gagging sound, and I couldn’t breathe. My windpipe had been severed by a sharp blade.

  “We told you so.” The girls stood, one on either side of me. They, too, bled from identical wounds in their necks. I tried to push away from the mirror, but I couldn’t move. The mirror held me in place, forcing me to watch as my image fell to her knees, blood soaking the front of the white blouse.

  Behind me a swarm of flies drew near. I heard their buzzing, the angry hum of hunger. They’d come to feast upon the blood and bodies . . . to do their master’s bidding. Even in my worst fears, I’d underestimated the entity that occupied Roswell House. And I’d grievously overestimated my ability to reason with it, or her, because the flies buzzed behind me, again assuming the shape of a woman in a dress with the longer cuirass bodice fitted over a whalebone corset that gave her the perfect figure. Her hair was upswept. Her face had no features, only a blank where nose, eyes, and mouth should be.

  I took a step back, and a cloud of flies peeled away from the female form and came at my mirror image, diving into the open wound. They swarmed the raw edges and the blood, and I swatted frantically, hysteria swelling in my chest. It was as if they wanted to push into the wound, to buzz inside my throat and body. Suddenly, as quickly as they’d attacked, they left.

  The smell of death and decay rose from the female form, and when at last I could breathe again, I thought I might vomit. She reached out a hand toward me, and I was helpless to avoid her touch.

  “Run!” The twins pushed at me, hard enough to knock me off balance so that I stumbled away from the mirrors and toward the front door. When I escaped the mirror image, I could finally move.

  “Run!” They scampered past me into the sunshine, and I was hot on their heels. I knew now that Reginald had never been in the house. The noises were a trap, designed to lure me inside. The girls had warned me. She was i
ndeed a tricky one. And strong.

  I rushed into the sunshine, the world once again a vibrant green with a blue sky and dark-purple clouds building on the horizon. Whatever spell had enchanted me, I was free of it. And I had learned something of great value. When I went back inside the house in the evening, I would be prepared.

  But first I had to find Reginald.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  David wasn’t at the bank when I returned, and neither was Bernard. David’s secretary, a stiff young man with spectacles, said he’d left in a rush with the older man in tow. While I was desperate to talk to David and find Reginald, I was relieved that he hadn’t been arrested.

  “Did they leave with anyone else?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am. The two of them opened one of the safe-deposit boxes in his office. Ten minutes later, they left. Is something wrong? Mr. Simpson seemed upset.”

  “I can’t say, but I have to find them. Did they mention where they were going?”

  The neatly dressed young man cast a sidelong glance at me, and I knew he was wondering if I was one of those women who pursued eligible bachelors.

  “I’m a friend of Camilla’s.”

  He nodded a bit sheepishly. “Mr. Simpson didn’t name his destination. He just seemed frantic, and about fifteen minutes ago, the sheriff was here asking for him. What’s going on?”

  “I’m not certain.” And I wasn’t about to say what I suspected. “Please tell David to check with Minnie Sayre as soon as he returns. And may I use the phone?”

  I knew I had to be careful with what I said. The telephone switchboard was a place where secrets were too often shared, unbeknownst to the speaker. When the operator put me through to Minnie, I was as brief as I could be.

  “If you speak with David or Reginald, please ask them to find me at the courthouse.”

  “Of course.” Minnie was wise enough not to ask questions.

  “Zelda and Tallulah are fine.” I wanted to reassure her. “They’re . . . planning a new production at the country club.”