The Danger Next Door (Anne Lambert Mysteries) Page 7

  Something about the way Lady Soames said this caused Anne to look up at her sharply. The older woman’s expression was unreadable, her gaze focused on the tea she was stirring with a tiny silver spoon, but her last statement had triggered an unexpected idea in Anne’s mind. She had the distinct, and shocking, impression that Lady Soames suspected Daniel of killing his brother – and that she wasn’t all that upset by the thought.

  * * * *

  Anne splashed cold water on her face and tried to convince herself she was ready for the trials to come. Carstairs had knocked on the door of her room and imparted the news that lunch was ready in the Ludden dining room. She turned off the taps and checked in the mirror to make sure she was presentable enough to eat in a room which had its own name. Very spiffy, she told herself encouragingly. She had on her best t-shirt, a black one from The Gap, bought only two weeks ago. No noticeable stains or holes on either her shirt or her jeans. Okay, so there was that ink stain on her left knee, but you’d have to be crawling around on your hands and knees to notice it.

  She gave her hair a quick brush and plopped down on the pink satin bedspread to tie a loose shoelace, carefully holding the muddy sole away from the fabric. The bedroom Lady Soames had assigned her was small but elegant, with a heavy oak four-poster bed, matching bureau, and brass floor lamps with rose satin shades echoing the bedspread. A marble fireplace with cherubs gamboling across the mantle faced the bed, and a window seat with a tapestry cushion looked out over the lake. The room was comfortable and cozy, but its elegance left Anne feeling twitchy. She was afraid to touch anything for fear of staining or breaking it. Upper class life took some getting used to. She would have felt more at ease in a cheap Bed & Breakfast. She nervously tucked in her t-shirt for the third time, then left the room and hurried along the wood-paneled hall to the stairs leading down to the first floor. These stairs were a work of art. Entirely made of white marble, the banister was covered with marble roses and ripe grape vines twisting in all directions. Anne traced a stone rose petal with a fingertip as she passed, its coldness sending a chill up her arm.

  She reached the bottom of the stairs and paused to scout around for landmarks. A vase full of yellow tulips stood on a small malachite table to her left. She didn’t remember passing it when Carstairs had shown her up to her room. She glanced to the right. A long hallway carpeted in pale gold seemed familiar. Anne started down this, peeking in each room that branched off of it. She remembered a dark, oak-paneled room with a pool table. Here it was. Now, through here and then across this foyer, then . . . Aargh! She was lost. Three hallways branched off the foyer like entrances to a labyrinth. Did she take the left-hand one, only to be devoured by a snarling tiger? Or the middle one, to be crushed by falling boulders? Or the right-hand one, where a pirate’s hoard of gold and jewels sparkled? Even dismemberment by tiger seemed preferable to the lunch party which awaited. Maybe if she wandered around the house long enough lunch would be over before she got there.

  “It’s the right-hand one,” said a voice behind her.

  Anne whirled around. It was Dr. Davidson. He was more casually dressed than usual, in a gray cashmere pullover and darker gray trousers. The pleats on his trousers were ironed to a knife-edge sharpness.

  “You startled me,” gasped Anne, stating the obvious.

  Dr. Davidson smiled his barely-there smile and didn’t apologize.

  Anne was tempted to ask where he had come from, but decided she didn’t want to know. She preferred to think that his guest room was at the opposite end of the house from hers. If the reality was more unpleasant than that, well, she’d rather be uninformed. There were times when self-delusion was the key to sanity.

  “I hope your room is satisfactory.” He motioned toward the correct hallway and politely waited for her. The corridor had large floor-to-ceiling windows looking out toward the back of the house. As they walked Anne caught glimpses of a French-style formal garden. Low box hedges were trimmed into intricate knot patterns and bordered by gravel walks. The turned-over earth of dormant flowerbeds looked like rich chocolate cake trampled on by the gardener.

  “My room is fine, thanks.”

  “I have the corner room two doors down from you,” the doctor said, seeming to read her thoughts. “Lady Soames always puts me there when I visit.” His tone implied that he was a frequent guest at the Soames estate, and was well aware of the status this imparted. “The family bedrooms are in another wing, so our rooms are quite isolated. I find it very restful.”

  Anne didn’t respond. She was preoccupied in trying to recall if her room had a lock on the door. She didn’t think so.

  After a few more twists and turns they finally emerged into the Ludden dining room. Anne had no idea how to find her way back to her room. A trail of breadcrumbs might have been wise, she thought to herself.

  The room was smaller than she had expected, with an ordinary-sized dining table in its center. Blue brocade fabric covered the walls and chair backs. French doors opened onto a section of the terrace which had been enclosed in glass – a decorative greenhouse where orange and grapefruit trees looked out of place against the cold rain pelting the glass.

  Lady Soames was already seated at one end of the dining table, her posture rigid and uninviting. A tall, broad-shouldered man with wavy gray hair faced her over a centerpiece stuffed with white mums and spiky dahlias. Lord Soames, Anne guessed. Daniel was pacing back and forth, chewing on his thumbnail. He stopped when she entered and gave her a furtive look before slumping into his chair. Dr. Davidson pulled out a chair for her and waited beside it. Anne eyed him suspiciously. She was tempted to ignore him and take the other empty chair, but was afraid of looking childish. She gingerly sat down on the edge of the chair, leaning away from him as he pushed her up to the table.

  “Jack, this is Miss Lambert,” said Lady Soames by way of introduction.

  Anne aimed a hesitant smile toward the end of the table. Lord Soames nodded at her curtly and then opened the Financial Times with a snap. Anne dropped her eyes to her plate in embarrassment and then glanced up to find Daniel staring at her fixedly. He was still chewing on his thumbnail, which was beginning to resemble a bloody piece of steak tartare.

  “Got my car back,” he said. “The police returned it yesterday, no thanks to you.”

  “Daniel!” barked Lady Soames.

  Daniel slumped further into his chair and wrapped a white linen handkerchief around his thumb, watching with interest as a spot of blood soaked through it.

  He was better than any diet pill ever made, thought Anne as she watched him. She now had no appetite whatsoever, which was inconvenient, as Carstairs was hovering at her elbow with a tray of sliced beef in horseradish sauce. Anne took a small piece and pushed it to the edge of her plate. She took a sip of water and wondered not for the first time what she was doing there. It was Saturday, and the earliest she could politely leave was probably Sunday, around noon. A whole twenty-four hours to go. She permitted herself an inaudible sigh. The house was beautiful, but the attractions of the estate were considerably diminished by the personalities of its owners.

  “Daniel is a trader, you know,” exclaimed Lady Soames suddenly. “In the City. He’s quite the expert on stocks and bonds.”

  Lord Soames grunted at this in a way which didn’t suggest proud papa. Dr. Davidson hid a smile behind his napkin.

  “Everyone at his company is quite impressed with him,” continued Lady Soames. “The chairman mentioned it only last week. You remember, Jack. At the club.”

  “I suspect what he was impressed with was the golf course,” replied Lord Soames dryly.

  Lady Soames chose to ignore this. She helped herself to a piece of bread and passed the basket to Anne. “We were thinking of taking a little trip this afternoon to Daniel’s old school, Wyndham Preparatory, if the weather clears. It’s not far from here, and the campus is beautiful. I always enjoy taking a walk around it. Plus I want to check on James’ memorial. We authorized the constru
ction of a new gymnasium in his honor. He always enjoyed sport.”

  Daniel began coughing loudly at this, but Lady Soames’ selective hearing screened him out. “Would you care to come with us?” she asked Anne.

  “Um, yes. Sure. That would be nice,” Anne replied, wondering who exactly was included in the ‘us’.

  An hour later Anne found herself in the cushy back seat of a silver Bentley, squashed between Lady Soames and Dr. Davidson. She had her North Face parka wrapped around her, her arms folded, and her legs tightly crossed at the ankles. In short, she was making herself as small as humanly possible, and yet Dr. Davidson’s knee still kept mysteriously bumping hers. Each time it did she twitched away as if she’d been shocked with a bare electric wire.

  Carstairs was driving and Daniel was in the front seat next to him, smoking furiously. The car’s windows were closed against the cold March weather and the front seat was beginning to resemble Los Angeles on a smog-alert day. Anne was grateful for the clear glass barrier which separated the front seat from the back. Now, if she could just open the back door and give Dr. Davidson a shove – preferably when they were doing over sixty – then the drive might actually be enjoyable. The Kent countryside they were passing through was pretty in a low-key sort of way. Rolling hills, clumps of woodland, fields of hops newly planted and ready for spring. The road was bordered on both sides by untrimmed hedgerows which partially blocked the view. Anne didn’t notice the sign for the school until they had passed it. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the word ‘Preparatory’ in gold letters on a blue background just as they turned off the main road. She hadn’t noticed a town or even a farm for more than a mile. The school seemed to be unusually isolated.

  They drove past a swampy looking football pitch with dozens of little boys sliding around in the mud, their green and white jerseys rapidly turning brown. A lot of students around for a Saturday, thought Anne. Then she remembered that this was a boarding school. The students were stuck here all year round. She felt a twinge of pity for them, especially the older ones. It must drive the teenagers crazy to live in the middle of nowhere, with no town center to hang out in.

  The football pitches and dormitories they passed were modern and characterless, but as they approached the center of the campus the buildings went back in time. Several were Georgian in style, all straight lines and yellow brick. Farther in a stately group of Tudor mansions huddled together, their sides almost touching. At the very center an elegant sweep of green lawn stretched between ancient oak trees.

  Carstairs parked the Bentley next to a crumbling stone church. While Dr. Davidson helped Lady Soames on with her coat Anne wandered over to the church. A wooden sign planted in the grass next to its roman-arched entrance was plastered with notices printed on pink paper. Choir practice was Saturdays at noon, she read. The vicar’s cat (black with a white spot on its nose) had gone missing, as had ten of the church’s altar candles. Listed below the notices were the times the church was open for business. Sunday services were at 9:00 a.m., and something called Evensong happened on Wednesdays. Anne wondered what this was. She climbed the flagstone steps at the front of the church and tried the battered black door. Locked.

  She turned to go back down the stairs – and nearly ploughed into Dr. Davidson. He grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her from falling into him. She shuddered at the contact and jerked away.

  “What?” Anne snapped.

  “Nothing,” replied the doctor, raising his hands in a ‘calm down, I wasn’t doing anything’ gesture. “I was just wondering if you’d like to see the building where I used to work. It has a stunning Adams ceiling in the front hall, and even a small Gainsborough in the headmaster’s office.”

  “Um, sure, I guess,” Anne said. “Who else is coming?”

  “Daniel,” replied the doctor with a slight smile. “Lady Soames and Carstairs are walking over to the gymnasium. We’ll meet up with them later. It’s this way.” He gestured toward a clump of leafless oaks. Daniel fell in behind them, muttering to himself in between drags on his cigarette.

  As they drew nearer a building became visible through the trees. A two-story brick mansion in the Tudor style, its walls mottled by age and lichen, its chimneys leaning toward each other like office workers gossiping about the boss. Dr. Davidson led the way up the front steps, his feet following the grooves worn into the stone by generations.

  The doctor paused inside the entrance hall and pointed up at the ceiling. “Adams. About 1770.”

  Anne looked up. A complex pattern of stucco grape vines spiraled around the edge of the ceiling and snaked down the columns positioned at each of the room’s corners. “It’s beautiful,” she said. And meant it.

  Daniel was less impressed with the room’s attractions. He leaned against the nearest column and lit another cigarette.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” snapped the doctor. “This is a listed building. Do you realize what damage smoke can do to plasterwork?”

  Daniel stared at him blankly, the cigarette hanging from his lip. Finally, he pulled it from his mouth and dropped it on the marble floor of the hall. He sauntered out the front door like a rebellious schoolboy overly impressed with a small act of defiance.

  Dr. Davidson grimaced in disgust and carefully squashed the butt with his shoe, then picked it up and wiped the floor with his handkerchief.

  “Who’s been smoking in here?” a voice suddenly roared from the corridor leading off the entrance hall. Footsteps echoed around the hall and then stopped as a portly, bearded man in a black suit and gray-striped vest appeared. “Davidson!” he shouted in surprise. “What are you doing here and why are you smoking while doing it?”

  “I’m just visiting,” the doctor replied calmly. “And the smoke belongs to a former pupil, Daniel Soames.”

  “Soames,” grunted the bearded gentleman. “I remember him. Wish I didn’t. Weasely little git. Won’t amount to anything, despite his family’s money.”

  “Very true,” agreed a nondescript looking man in a brown tweed suit who had followed his loud colleague into the hall. “I had him in one of my European History classes. He sat in the back row all term. I suspect he was asleep most of the time.”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t the only one,” said the doctor mildly.

  The bearded gentleman chuckled at this and gave his colleague a slap on the back which rocked him like a rowboat in a storm. “Yes, Kenneth’s style of teaching lacks drama. That’s what the boys want. You can’t stand up there whispering at them. Davidson,” he continued, “Why don’t you join us in my office? I have a bottle of Madeira which needs sampling. Your friend is welcome too of course,” he said with a polite nod at Anne.

  Anne returned his nod, but recognized a chance for escape when she saw it. “Thank you, that’s very tempting, but I’d like to have a walk around your campus. You have some beautiful buildings here.”

  “Yes, we do,” said the man in the brown suit. “Why don’t we leave them to their port. I’ll show you around a bit. I’m by way of an architecture buff. Goes hand in hand with the teaching of history. What do you say?”

  Anne was a little taken aback at this offer, but recovered quickly. Anything to remove herself from Dr. Davidson’s company. “Sure. That would be nice.”

  * * * *

  “And this is our Philosophy and Psychology building. Queen Anne style, built about 1850.”

  Anne and Kenneth, as he had insisted she call him, were standing on a flagstone path which had lost a battle with tree roots. The path buckled and writhed in agony where oak roots as fat as pythons snaked under it. The knarled oaks themselves looked as if they were trying their best to ignore the violence at their feet.

  “Psychology,” said Anne. “Then this is the building where Dr. Davidson worked.”

  “No,” replied the history professor apologetically. “The Administration building - the one with the Adams ceiling - that’s where he worked. He didn’t teach Psychology. He was the school’s guidance
counselor. I’m sure he’s glad to be away from it and in private practice. Between you and me, he was not very good at interacting with the boys. The only boy who seemed to be comfortable in his presence was James Soames. You know, Daniel’s brother.”

  “Yes. I met him once, about a month ago,” said Anne. “Only a week before his death.”

  “Yes. Very sad,” said Kenneth, picking at a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. “I’ve read the accounts of it in the papers. Not that they’ve given it much coverage. James didn’t make any more impression in death than he did in life. But regardless, the papers have hinted at foul play.”

  “Yes,” said Anne. “Do you think anyone might have had a grudge against him?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” said the professor. “James graduated more than a decade ago, and I haven’t seen him since. Of course, we see Lord and Lady Soames here occasionally. They are great benefactors of the school. And Daniel comes to alumni events. Actually, I could easily see someone doing away with Daniel. He tends to antagonize people. James, on the other hand, has always sort of faded into the background. Never involved in any kind of controversy. Well, except for the incident of that young boy’s strangulation.”

  Anne’s eyebrows went up into her hairline. “What young boy?” she managed to squeak out.

  “Oh, this was years ago. James was still a student here, though he was close to graduating if I remember correctly. A ten year old boy was found strangled in the dorms. There was, of course, an exacting investigation. It went on for more than a year, with the police here constantly. All of the staff and students were questioned, but there was little physical evidence. In the end the police had to concede defeat. As far as I know the case is still open. Anyway, the reason the incident rose to my mind is that James Soames was under suspicion for a while. The police interrogated him at great length, but no actual charges were ever brought. I don’t remember why the police focused on him. Davidson would probably know. He spent a great deal of time counseling James during that year. James would have been only fifteen, maybe sixteen, with his whole life ahead of him. The prospect of a lengthy jail sentence would shake stronger souls than his.”