The Seeing

Chapter Twenty-Two

“There’s no way we can keep the wheels on this goddamn deal now.” Saxe’s voice was tight with frustration. “What the hell’s your plan? Keep her locked up till she’s twenty-one?”

Eric said, “We’re in no danger, Tony, providing we keep our heads and resist your temptation to panic.”

“I wish to Christ you’d spell it out,” Benny Stiff said. “I came into this deal for some quick, safe loot. Now I got a murder staring me in the face. I didn’t mean to kill that old bastard, I just wanted to—”

Eric interrupted him. “Of course you meant to kill him, Benny. As my mentor, Ira Washburn, often said, there are surprisingly few true accidents in life.”

The three men were in the library, early sunshine splashing the glowing carpets, and gleaming on the burnished brass that framed the fireplace.

“That’s worth remembering,” Eric went on, “particularly when trying to portray Hamlet. There you have a man who sets out to kill one person and winds up ‘accidentally’ killing five. Still, if the player understands the dreadful compulsion behind these seemingly accidental—”

“Oh, for God’s sakes!” Tony Saxe said. “What the hell’s that got to do with anything? We’re sitting here with a feisty kid locked up upstairs, ready to blow the whistle the minute she gets a chance, a whistle that could put ropes around our necks. And how long is that hayseed cop from Ballytone going to live with our story about the old gardener?”

Eric buffed his nails on his lapels. “Not to worry, Tony...”

He had called Constable Patrick Riley earlier, advising him in mournful tones of the heart attack that had stricken Capability Brown. The constable had arrived shortly with what passed for the village ambulance, a panel truck with a stretcher, an oxygen tank, blankets, and a pair of local lads in white jackets.

Eric had been at his theatrically most convincing, as the old man’s body was carried to the hospital truck.

“He complained of a pain in his left arm only yesterday,” he had said.

The young constable had nodded sagely, his face fresh and red in the brisk dawn winds. “Aye, there’s your coronary.”

“I told him I didn’t want him to do any more work until he saw Dr. Cook.”

With a sigh, Benny Stiff had added, “He came into my room just to chat. We’d got pretty friendly. Without no warning at all, he just toppled over. Hit his head on that stone floor.”

Constable Riley had written down these details in a black notebook. “The little lass, Miss Jessica, she’ll be heartbroken. They were close, you know, old Brown and the girl.”

“Yes,” Eric had touched a handkerchief to his eye. “She’s in her room now, not up to seeing anyone...”

“Well, Mr. Brown’s heart never failed him when the country called,” Constable Riley said. “He’ll be missed in Ballytone and beyond.”

Eric smiled at Tony Saxe and Benny now and sipped coffee from his Lenox cup, admiring the gold rim afire with sunlight. Then he said crisply, “We’re not home free, of course, but we have nothing to fear if we keep our heads. Constable Riley will never doubt our story because he’s been programmed for centuries to respect the gentry. We’re in the big house on the hill, in a nation of fools and peasants. We can intimidate them with our fine cars and starched shirts as easily as if we had guns at their heads.”

“You’re going shut-eye,” Benny Stiff said. “I don’t want to bet this neck, which is the only one I’ve got, on that kind of bull. I killed that nosey old geek. I say I didn’t mean to, you say I did. Which don’t make no difference. That kid upstairs saw me hit him and knows what happened.”

Eric shrugged, a gesture dismissing Benny’s concerns. “Back in Camden, you and Tony were quick to suggest that I didn’t want this deal badly enough. That I wouldn’t, in effect, ‘go all out.’ Well, let me remind you, I paid my dues. We’re in this together now. Up to our necks, to use the figure that seems to haunt you. But take old Eric’s word for it. If you do exactly what I tell you, we’ll be on a flight back to the States in a few days, with Swiss bank accounts and wads of money in our pockets.”

Tony Saxe seemed reassured by Eric’s confidence. “Okay, you’re calling the shots,” he said. “So, what do we do now?”

“Good. You and Benny go down to the Hannibal and explain the new schedule to Ethelroyd. Tell him I want him here about noon, bank notes in hand. That should give me plenty of time to convince little Miss Crystal Head that...”

A ghastly scream from the rear of the house fell across his words, splintering his sentence with the force of a falling cleaver.

“Christ! That’s Maud!” Eric said.

The three men ran from the library through the great hall and down a long corridor into the kitchen, where they found Maud hurrying up from the wine cellar, two bottles clutched to her breast and an expression of mindless terror straining her pale features.

“Good God, Maud, what is it?”

“There was something down there. It brushed against my arms and face. I’d bent over to pick up a bottle. You would have wine with lunch, damn you, Eric. And I almost fainted when it touched me. It was dreadful. I knew I was awake, I knew I wasn’t dreaming—” She shuddered, an involuntary spasm that shook her body, and the next words came so intensely and rapidly that they were barely audible.

“It was like the time in that closet and that bitch Coralee lying about it and the smell of dust and perfume choking me, those silk ballgowns and nobody heard me.”

“Now, Maud...”

“Don’t ‘now Maud’ me, Eric. I could have died down there. It started growling. Then I realized it was that damned dog Fluter you ruined everything trying to poison. I screamed and screamed and he ran up these stairs and out the back door. I was down there in the darkness because I couldn’t find the light switch. My heart nearly burst and you had to have your damned proper lunch, the fine gentleman of Easter Hill. Of course, nothing’s too good for—”

“That’s enough, Maud.”

“—old Eric with his phony club ties and—”

“Shut up now,” Eric said, staring over his shoulder at the corridor leading up to the great hall. “Just stuff it! We’ve got callers.”

They all heard the chimes and their eyes turned to the directory panel in the service pantry.

One arrow in a row of indicators had lighted, swinging upright to point to the words: Main Entrance.

“Now everybody, relax,” Eric said. “It’s business as usual here. Remember, we’re naturally sad about the gardener but my niece can’t see anyone, anyone at all, understand?”

Composing himself, Eric walked to the hall and swung open the double doors which gave on views of terraced gardens and a circular driveway, views broken now by the purposeful figure of Miss Charity Bostwick.

“I stopped by to see Jessica, Mr. Griffith.”

“Oh, yes. You are—? I’m sorry.”

“I’m Charity Bostwick, a friend of the family.”

“Of course. You’ve given the child riding lessons, I believe. But I’m afraid Jessica can’t see anyone now. I presume you’ve heard the unhappy news about our gardener.”

“Yes, that’s why I came by. I thought it might help Jessica.”

“That’s good of you. It’s the sort of neighborly gesture one doesn’t find too often in this busy, modern world. However, this isn’t the best time for it. My niece cried herself to sleep, waked with a touch of fever. Her aunt’s with her now.”

“Have you sent for Dr. Cook?”

Eric smiled and said untruthfully, “But, of course. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Mr. Griffith, I don’t see the harm in letting me talk to Jessica.”

“She’s mentioned how fond she is of you, but I think just now quiet and rest are the best therapy.”

“Supposing we let Jessica decide that. Would you just tell her I’m here?”

“Of course, Miss Bostwick. I’ll leave it to her...”

Eric went up the broad curving stairway and walked along the corridor to the Clock Suite where he inspected himself in a clouded mirror set in the upper panels of a Winchester highboy. Smoothing down his thin blond hair, he bared his lips and inspected his teeth with a critical eye, after which he adjusted the knot of his wool knit tie, whistled softly for a moment or so, and then returned to the hall, his expression suggesting kindly concern.

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Bostwick. Jessica asked me to tell you she’s pleased you came by. But she’d rather not see anyone but family just yet.”

Charity Bostwick would have loved to be incisive and candid with this foppish Yank, telling him exactly what she thought of his bogus suede elbow patches, carefully waved blond hair, and supercilious smiles. But if something was wrong here, and Miss Charity’s suspicions were sharpening quickly, it wouldn’t do to let this improbable gentleman know she was on to him.

With an effort, she smiled. “If there’s any way at all I can help, Mr. Griffith, I’d be grateful if you rang me up.”

“How generous of you.”

“Thank you.”

Eric stood watching Miss Bostwick’s trim, athletic figure descending the garden steps to her sports car. Rocking on his heels, he hooked a thumb in his vest pocket and waved to her with his other hand, complacently aware of the picture he must present to this village matron, every inch the benevolent squire standing tall and virile in the high arched doorways of Easter Hill.