Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [23]
‘Did you see it?’ Tony demanded. ‘Or am I crazy?’
‘I did see her,’ George said coolly. ‘She’s gone now.’
I turned. The Hall was empty.
Tony ran towards the stairs.
‘Go slow,’ George said, catching his arm. ‘If you wake people like that too suddenly, it can be dangerous.’
‘She – she’s – sleepwalking, isn’t she?’ Tony asked.
‘What else?’
I didn’t say anything. George was right, of course. But I sympathized with Tony. George hadn’t seen that infernal portrait.
Then it hit me, and it was my turn to swear. Maybe George hadn’t seen the portrait, but Tony had; unless he knew of the uncanny resemblance between the two women, one living and one long dead, he wouldn’t have reacted so neurotically to what was – obviously! – a simple case of somnambulism. Tony hadn’t told me about all his research, then. I wondered how many other potentially useful facts he was hoarding.
I followed my two heroes down into the Hall.
‘I think she went this way,’ George said, starting towards the east end of the Hall. ‘You don’t happen to have a flashlight, do you, Lawrence?’
Tony did. The light moved around the room, spotlighting the suits of armour and the black mouth of the fireplace.
‘Wait a minute,’ George said. ‘She couldn’t get out this way. The door is locked.’ He demonstrated, rattling the knob.
‘You said she came this way.’
‘She must have doubled back under the stairs while we were talking. From the gallery that end of the room is not visible. Her room is in the tower, isn’t it?’
He led the way without waiting for an answer. At the opposite end of the Hall an open arch disclosed the first steps of a narrow stair.
‘We’d better check,’ Tony muttered. ‘Make sure the girl doesn’t hurt herself, wandering around . . . Follow me.’
The upper floor was a maze of corridors, but Tony threaded a path through them without hesitating once – another proof, if I needed any, that Tony had already explored the Schloss thoroughly. So, I reminded myself, we were not collaborating. He didn’t have to tell me anything . . . I wished I knew what George had been doing. I could feel his presence close behind me. For a big man he was very light on his feet.
On the first floor of the tower Tony tried a door. It creaked open. The flashlight showed an unfurnished circular chamber with rags of mouldering tapestry on the walls.
‘Nobody lives here,’ said George, peering over my shoulder. ‘Irma must be on the next floor.’
The stairs led up to a narrow landing with a faded strip of carpet across the floor. There was a single door. Tony hesitated, but George marched up to the door and turned the knob. His face changed.
‘Lawrence. Look at this.’
‘What’s the matter?’
George grabbed his hand and directed the flashlight beam onto the doorknob. Below it was a large keyhole, with the shaft of an iron key projecting from it. Tony gaped; but I didn’t need George’s comment to get the point.
‘Door’s locked. From the outside. Either this is not Irma’s room – or that wasn’t Irma we saw walking tonight.’
Chapter Four
‘MAY I ASK WHAT you are doing at my niece’s door at one o’clock in the mo rning?’
The cold, incisive voice came from the darkness of the stairs above us. Tony jumped. The flashlight beam splashed and scattered against the stone arch and then steadied, showing the form of a woman.
She was rather tall, though nowhere near my height. Her hair was snowy white – a beautiful shade that owed its tint to art rather than nature. Her figure was still slender, and her face retained the traces of considerable beauty. Her makeup and her handsome silk dressing gown were immaculate. She had fought time with some success, but the signs of battle were visible; the keen blue eyes were set in folds of waxy, crumpled flesh, and her neck had the petrified scrawniness older women get when they diet too strenuously. I would have known who she was even without