"You killed my father," she stated flatly.
He nodded benevolently. "Well, no. Actually I arranged for Toby to do it, but I was there, watching. I've learned it never pays to leave important tasks to underlings. People need supervision nowadays—they have no incentive. Toby was eager enough to please, but he wasn't very good at improvising. I see you're clutching my important piece of evidence. I was very distressed that Patrick's handkerchief wasn't found with the body, Molly. That upset a great many careful plans."
"It had your hair dye on it." She held up the square of linen.
She was pleased to see his ruddy complexion turn a sickly pale. "Good heavens, how careless of me! And how very fortunate that you thought to save your husband. Fate has been on my side after all, it seems. Things should work out very well this way, very well indeed."
"We were bringing you that money." Memories were flooding back at a terrifying, dizzying rate. "Why did you have to kill him?"
"It was necessary. Your father, petty little swindler that he was, knew what was going on the minute you turned up. He thought he could blackmail me for half of that money. You didn't know that, did you? He soon found out otherwise. That was my only mistake, Molly dear." He eyed his hands reflectively. "I thought that blow on your head killed you. Crushed your stubborn little skull. I should have known you were far too hardheaded. Imagine my displeasure when the police called and you were still alive. And no handkerchief! I thought all my plans had failed dismally." He shook his head sadly. "But you had that convenient loss of memory that no one believed, and now, everything has worked out splendidly. Just splendidly." He sighed.
"Just splendidly," she echoed in a daze.
"Ah, I can see you had some of your ginger ale tonight. It's much harder to hide drugs in soft drinks, you realize. Tonight it's just a strong sedative. You're too willful, my dear. But it's already slowed you down, I'm pleased to notice."
She hadn't touched the ginger ale. She looked up at Uncle Willy with feigned blankness.
"I don't plan to make it painful," he added. "As much as you've annoyed me, I'm basically a decent human being. I try not to hold grudges. And I can be fairly certain that no one has the faintest idea that I had a hand in either your father's death or Toby's. For one thing I have no motive—or not as strong a one as your dear husband. And for another, my dear Ermy will provide me with excellent alibis. Did you know, for example, that right now I am visiting our old friends the Sturbridges over in Devon? They had to go out on a previous engagement, but when they left I was there and when they return I will still be there. And there will be one less member of the exalted Winters family in the meantime."
There was a sneer in his voice as he rose and poured himself a stiff drink. His hands were suddenly still, unlike the usual mild tremor that afflicted him. Just another part of his elaborate charade.
"And what if they don't convict Patrick?" she asked, speaking in a deliberately thickened voice.
He shrugged his shoulders. "That's no problem, really. He won't marry again. He's in love with you, my dear. We all knew it, even if you were too heartsick and adolescent to realize it. Your untimely death by suicide will deal him a mortal blow. He'll continue to support Ermy and me because he's foolishly generous, and in a few years he'll meet with a recalcitrant horse or faulty brakes. He does drive too fast, you know. Such an angry, impetuous man. You could have been the making of him, but alas, that isn't to be. We can wait, once our goal is in sight. Infinite patience, that's what's required in a really first-class criminal mind." He drank deeply from his drink and stared into the fire. "Yes, my dear Molly, I consider myself a criminal, and I am proud of it. An ordinary man couldn't do what I've done. I can plan extraordinarily complicated schemes, I can kill when it's necessary, without compunction, and that all requires a truly high degree of dedication and skill."
"I don't understand what Toby had to do with this," she said, trying to keep Willy talking while she searched for any possible avenue of escape. The keys were in the car—she could probably run faster than he could, especially if she took him by surprise. He thought she was falling into a drugged stupor; instead the adrenaline was surging through her body. "Why would he be willing to kill? And why would you turn around and kill him?"
"Toby?" he said blankly. "Toby was becoming somewhat of a problem. He was the one who tried to kill you by the ruins, you know. And he was all set to crush your clever little brain in when he tripped up the horse. If Patrick hadn't made his untimely appearance it would all be over with, and you would have been spared a lot of needless fuss. But then, that's what life's all about, isn't it? Needless fuss."
He swirled his rapidly disappearing drink with one fat, pale finger. "That's a good lesson to learn, my dear. Never take a psycho into partnership with you. Toby was not what you'd call well-balanced. He'd always been consumed with a strange passion for you, and when you married Patrick it tipped him over the edge. He decided since he couldn't have you then nobody could. I'm afraid finding out your sexual liaison with your husband rather set the seal on his…problems. When he failed to strangle you last night he was going to come back with a gun, and that seemed far too sloppy. I suppose I could have taken the chance and let him do it. I could have hoped he wouldn't talk and just let all my work be handled by a poor deranged boy. But chances are not my style at all. Not at all. So I took care of him myself." He sighed heavily. "If you hadn't gone creeping off to Patrick's bed I could have finished what Toby had so sloppily started. The coroner probably wouldn't have noticed that Toby's death preceded yours."
"And you left something incriminating of Patrick's by his side? As you tried to do with my father?" she questioned, watching him as he rose and made his way to the bar.
"Naturally. I had had the foresight to arm myself ahead of time with another of his handkerchiefs and his watch. There's no way he'll be released—the police are an awfully gullible lot. That ox Stroup would just love to lock Pat up and have you all alone out here. But when he comes to call he'll find Pat's poor wife dead by her own hand, and he'll…"
She was on her feet and out of the room before he could turn around. She slammed open the front door and ran out into the cool night air. A light rain was falling, and the sounds of Uncle Willy's furious pursuit were unmistakable. She raced toward the garage, dodging through doorways, as she heard him come closer and closer, his heaving, panting breath loud in the stillness.
Finally she reached the old van. The night was oddly silent—Uncle Willy must have gone in the wrong direction. She jumped in the car and reached for the ignition.
The keys were gone. She felt around on the floor, in the glove compartment, fright and desperation making her oblivious to the threat moving up behind her. When she straightened up she looked directly into Willy's pale, murderous eyes.
Like a fool she sat there, too numb with horror to lock the doors against him. He yanked her out of the driver's seat, insane fury mixing with some ghastly trace of amusement.
"I warned you I consider myself a master criminal," he said in his soft voice, his pale fat hands on her arm, squeezing with surprising strength. "You just made a fool of me, Molly. Even though I had the foresight to remove the keys, you shouldn't have gotten this far. You didn't drink anything at all tonight, did you? You thought you could fool me. Most annoying of you. And it would have been a waste of time—the van isn't working properly, remember? No," he said, dragging her back through the barns and the courtyard, into the kitchen, "I'm afraid you're going to have to be punished for this. The loss of my dignity will come very dear. I was going to try to make it easy for you, for old times' sake, but now it's going to hurt. It's going to hurt quite a bit." His eyes glistened and Molly noticed he was drooling slightly.
For a moment she thought she saw a flash of light in the distance, but it was gone before she could look further, and she didn't want to alert her would-be murderer. Help was highly unlikely. If she was to stay alive it was up to her, and right now her chances didn't
look too promising.
"How are you going to do it?" she asked him humbly when they reached the living room once more and he'd shoved her down into the chair.
He chuckled pleasantly, running his pale, sluglike hand across his mussed orange strands. "You'll be found hanging from one of the rafters in the attic. And it should take quite a while to find you—a typewritten note will serve to distract everyone for a few days. Until you begin to smell, my dear." He sat and reached for his drink. "I had meant to be generous and snap your little neck with a quick jerk of my wrists so that you'd only have a moment of blinding pain before it was all over." He smiled through the cheerful firelight, and Beastie snored blissfully on. "But now, my dear, I'm going to strangle you, slowly, so I can watch your eyes bulge out, watch you gasp and scream for mercy, watch you pleading as I rip your life away with my bare hands." It all sounded like a recipe: detailed, but simple and effective.
Shuddering uncontrollably, she let her hand trail nervelessly, and noticed, an aching fraction of an inch out of her reach, the lovely old brass-handled fire tools. He would notice in a second if she appeared to reach for them, and her one final chance of salvation would be gone.
Willy looked at his watch in a businesslike fashion. "I'm afraid it's getting late, my dear," he announced affably. "This is pleasant but I do have to allow enough time to get back before my hosts return." He rose, and came toward her slowly, very slowly. She watched him out of hooded eyes, concentrating desperately on the fire poker just out of reach, thinking of Patrick, and of poor, sick, dead Toby. Of her father, whom she'd barely known. She'd thought she could go to him for help, for a place to hide from Willy and the danger, a place to hide from the husband who hated her. Instead he'd been ready to betray her for money. But in the end he was the one who was betrayed.
Willy moved closer, running a quick tongue over his dry, flabby lips, his eyes moist and shining, his fat pale fingers twitching.
And then a sound, the briefest of unexpected noises broke in the room. He whirled around, his back presented for only a second. It was all Molly needed. Without an instant's hesitation she smashed him over the head with the lovely brass-handled fire poker, the fastidious orange hairs providing no padding. His squat body sank to the floor in a curious attitude of surprise. She looked up and met the astonished deep blue eyes of her husband, followed closely by Lieutenant Ryker and his posse.
After a moment Patrick broke the stillness. "How the hell," he asked in a faintly disgruntled tone of voice, "am I supposed to save you when you prove entirely capable of rescuing yourself?"
She shrugged, and smiled, took one step toward him and quite calmly passed out on the body of dear Uncle Willy.
Epilogue
« ^
She slept in his arms that night, curled up snugly against his body as if that was where she belonged. Patrick lay beside her, drifting in and out of sleep, his arms tight and possessive around her.
He'd tried to reason with her. "I'm too old for you," he'd said. "I have too foul a temper."
"I'm mature for my age," she'd said, an arrant lie, as she bit his shoulder. "And I'm fairly grumpy myself."
"I should never have married you," he tried to tell her, later, when she was licking his navel. "I took advantage of you. I knew you had a crush on me, that you'd do anything for me…"
"I would," she agreed, moving her head lower.
His voice grew tight and husky. "But it's not fair to you."
"Let me decide what's fair," she said.
"You'll find someone better suited to you."
"There isn't anyone better for me."
"You'll regret it."
Her mouth was too busy to reply to such a patently ridiculous statement, and he found he couldn't manage to come up with any more arguments for the time being. But later, when they were curled tight around each other, he slid his hands through her thick tangle of wheat-colored hair and tilted her face up to his. She looked sleepy, sated, immensely pleased with herself, and he didn't want to care that much.
"I won't hold you here," he said in a harsh, quiet voice.
She stared at him, her eyes wide. "You can't make me leave you." She reached up her own hands to cup his cheeks, and her voice was intense. "Don't you love me, Patrick?"
He'd never meant to tell her. He's always thought it would take unfair advantage of her. But there was no way he could not answer her simple, heartfelt question.
"Completely," he said.
She smiled, a bright, tear-filled smile. "I know," she said.
And he wondered if he'd just made the worst mistake of his entire life.
When Molly woke up the next morning he was gone. She hadn't felt him leave. She could hear Mrs. Morse humming to herself in the kitchen below—Patrick had left the door ajar. Mrs. Morse was in a very good mood. She was singing out of tune and quite loudly.
Molly jumped out of Patrick's bed and stretched luxuriously. Bright sunlight was pouring in the open windows, and it seemed as if winter was finally coming to a close. It was good to be alive on this April morning, though she doubted poor Willy felt so. She had only managed to daze him, and he was now unhappily incarcerated in the county jail, awaiting arraignment.
She showered and dressed quickly in cutoff jeans and the tightest T-shirt she owned. She wanted to see Patrick. To see whether the slowly burgeoning trust and friendliness survived outside the bedroom walls. To see whether he still knew that he loved her.
And yet she was almost afraid to find out. If he turned that cold, stony face on her once more she didn't think she could bear it.
"And how are you this fine morning?" Mrs. Morse greeted her with almost tasteless good cheer, considering the circumstances. Bringing coffee and muffins to the table, she pulled out a chair invitingly. "Eat, for goodness sake!" she ordered. "Patrick told me all about your fright last night—you need rest and good food after an ordeal like that!" She shook her head meaningfully. "Willy confessed all nice and neat when he saw it was useless. No, we won't have him to worry us ever again. They'll lock him away for hundreds of years, you mark my words. I'm only thinking it's a shame they don't use capital punishment more often." She paused for breath. "And as for your Aunt Ermy, why she just disappeared off the face of the earth, as far as anyone can tell. Doesn't seem like they'll ever find her, more's the pity. What's the matter, child, don't you have any appetite?"
Molly shook her head and smiled nervously. "I don't care whether they find Ermy or not," she said truthfully. "As long as she keeps away from here it doesn't matter to me what she does with herself. I don't imagine she was anything more than a pawn in Uncle Willy's game."
Mrs. Morse sniffed. "That's as may be. She was still one of the meanest women I've ever known, and don't you doubt it. Still, I suppose you're right—as long as she's gone that's all that matters. It still horrifies me to think of the years that have gone by with them living here as friendly as you please, all the time planning such wickedness." She shook her graying head with wonder. "Come on now, dearie, eat something. You need to get some meat on those bones." Her eyes reflected a mild disapproval for the scantiness of Molly's clothing.
"Where's Patrick?" she asked suddenly, the suspense unbearable. Before any more time passed she had to find out what his attitude toward her might be.
"He was out in the yard last time I looked. He said to tell you that you and he would have to go into town later on to give statements to the police…" Her voice trailed off as Molly ran out the door.
The sun was pouring down, the first really hot day of the year, and she had to squint her eyes against the glare. There was the faintest hint of a breeze, and it blew her hair in her face. She pushed it away impatiently, looking for him, half afraid of what she'd see when she looked into his eyes.
She saw him first, his lean, strong body bent over some piece of riding tack, his eyes narrowed in concentration, his black hair curling around his neck in an endearing way that made her long to reach out and touch it. So far she hadn't
quite dared.
She moved closer, casting a shadow across his work, and he looked up swiftly. "Hullo," she said rather breathlessly, trying to hide her nervousness, all the while listening to the pounding of her heart, the jumping of her nerves, her flat out panic that this was all going to end in disaster.
He stood up, looking at her for a moment, his face cool and expressionless. And then his eyes warmed. He reached for her, and without thinking she ran into his arms.
His mouth came down on hers with such casual, automatic intimacy that she knew it was going to be all right. She reached out and ran her fingers through the tangle of hair at the back of his neck. He drew back slightly, and his smile was brighter than the blazing sun.
"Hullo, yourself," he said. "I love you."
And winter was over at last.
^
Anne Stuart, Winter's Edge
(Series: # )
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