A Fugitive Truth Read online

  DANA CAMERON

  A FUGITIVE TRUTH

  AN EMMA FIELDING MYSTERY

  For J.P.G.,

  in the words of R.A.H.:

  Semper toujours.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  I STARED, UNCOMPREHENDING, AT THE BLOOD AS IT welled up…

  Chapter 2

  AS I DESCENDED THE STAIRS THE NEXT MORNING I smelled…

  Chapter 3

  MADAM CHANDLER KEPT ME FASCINATED FOR THE next day and…

  Chapter 4

  I OPENED MY MOUTH AND CLOSED IT. THE SHOCK OF…

  Chapter 5

  I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG IT WAS BEFORE I CREPT…

  Chapter 6

  AS I GASPED MY WAY UP THE FRONT STAIRS, I…

  Chapter 7

  “ARE YOU GOING TO BE SAFE?” BRIAN SOUNDED AS though…

  Chapter 8

  FROM THE SOUNDS I HEARD EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, as far…

  Chapter 9

  DESPITE THE RACKET MY FLAT LEATHER SHOES slapping the pavement…

  Chapter 10

  FAITH WAS MURDERED THEN. THE THOUGHT POPPED into my head…

  Chapter 11

  THERE WAS JACK, LYING SLUMPED AGAINST THE latticework railing of…

  Chapter 12

  “NOOO! LET ME GO!” I COULDN’T UNDERSTAND why I couldn’t…

  Chapter 13

  “EMMA!” IT TOOK ME A SECOND TO RECOGNIZE Sasha’s voice.

  Chapter 14

  IF I’D HAVE KNOWN WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN AT…

  Chapter 15

  “YOU KNOW,” PAM KOBRINSKI WAS SAYING, “I think we just…

  Chapter 16

  A DREADFUL POUNDING WOKE ME THE NEXT MORNING, and it…

  Chapter 17

  I RESOLUTELY WENT BACK TO MY ROOM, DETERMINED to continue…

  Chapter 18

  THE GRINDING NOISES COMING FROM UNDER THE hood finally convinced…

  Chapter 19

  MY FACE WAS GETTING HOT FROM MY PROXIMITY to the…

  Chapter 20

  “PUT THE GUN DOWN, HARRY,” PAM ORDERED calmly. “Let Emma…

  Epilogue

  ALMOST TWO WEEKS LATER, I SWIVELED AROUND in my chair,…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Dana Cameron

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  I STARED, UNCOMPREHENDING, AT THE BLOOD AS IT welled up into a perfect sphere, balanced precariously on the ball of my thumb. Finally the surface tension broke and the globe turned into a trickle, running down my hand. That transformation also broke the spell on me, and I stuck my thumb into my mouth as the vibrant pain of the slice brought itself to my utmost attention. The excruciating sensation did nothing, however, to mitigate the triumph at hand, and I knew that if I was still capable of making puns like that, I needn’t call the undertaker just yet.

  It wasn’t the paper cut that was causing my good mood to evaporate, however. I was sitting, freezing, in my faithful, though beat-up Civic outside the gates of the Shrewsbury Foundation, and as their newest Fellow, I really hadn’t expected the kind of treatment I was receiving. All I wanted to do was get up to my room, unpack, and get ready for the four weeks of research that awaited me, but the supercilious guard who had so thoughtlessly snatched my acceptance letter away was taking his time checking his clipboard.

  I sighed while he looked at the letter again suspiciously, like the barbarian hordes were crouched just behind me, waiting to storm the gates of Shrewsbury. I was tired; at three o’clock in the afternoon it had already been a long day. As excited as I was to be here, it had taken forever to pack, and of course I’d postponed it until the last minute, delaying the moment when I would have to abandon my husband, Brian, to the rigors of solitary household renovation for the next month. As a result, I’d left nearly two hours later than I’d expected, but the drive from our home in Lawton, in northern Massachusetts, out to Monroe in the western part of the state had perked me up immeasurably, perhaps even encouraging me to push the Civic beyond its present capacity and ignore the speed limit.

  The views of the Berkshires were wonderful from the highway, vistas of craggy, wind-buffeted trees and steep gray cliffs, and I realized, a little guiltily, at how much I was looking forward to getting away from the never-ending home improvements and escaping into work that was purely my own. Libraries had always been where I’d gone to make sense of the world, and this one had the added lure of primary sources directly related to my work. I even had a chance to visit friends who worked nearby. I was on my own, and it was a good day for driving: clear, cold, and just a little overcast. After a couple of uneventful hours, I found myself in Redfield County, where the hilly terrain made my ears pop regularly and the pines and bare oaks stood out against the empty March sky. There the driving got a little more interesting; I was wrestling for the steering wheel with the wind, resisting the pull to the edge of the road and the cliff.

  And then I didn’t resist. I pulled over, got out, and considered the vista before me, cataloguing it as would a social scientist and someone with a nodding acquaintance with geology and environmental studies. My stomach contracted even before I reached the guardrail and considered the drop down to the icy river below. I forgot to wonder whether the area had been formed by volcanism or tectonic smashing and forced myself to edge over and look straight down. I craned my neck to see, as if the mere act of moving closer to the cliff meant that I would immediately hurl myself over the side. The black water one hundred feet below me looked as though it sucked all the light and heat from the surroundings, keeping the town on the opposite rocky bank firmly entrenched in late wintry gloom. As if that weren’t enough, the little factory town—I didn’t even know what its name was—appeared to have seen better days since its founding; there was no smoke coming from the stack and there were no lights in the windows. A lone car moved along the street on the opposite bank, and I shivered. It might have been that the mill or factory was now converted to a high-technology haven, and the light was wrong for me to tell that there was any life inside; it might have been that the town was enjoying a well-earned rest before they geared up for a thriving summer tourist trade, but I had no way of knowing. From this distance, it all seemed as bleak as the cliffs, as scrubby and weather-worn as the firs I saw by the riverbank. I pulled my coat closer and got back into my car. I was surprised that the view should have had that dismal effect on me, but I chalked it up to a too-hectic schedule and fatigue.

  Driving another twenty minutes brought me to Monroe, the town closest to the library, and the source of the Shrewsbury family’s wealth. At least I could see signs of life here—cars filled the main street, shops were open and busy—and that cheered me again.

  The Shrewsbury Foundation was located a short distance outside of Monroe, a tall wrought-iron fence surrounding its grounds. From what I could see of the house from the breaks in the trees along the road—one of the hazards of creating a view for yourself is that it also tends to put you on display—the fence suited the place, all Victorian gothic and curlicues. The real blot on the landscape was this foolish, imposing, and totally inappropriate guardhouse at the main entrance, complete with an orange-and-white-striped hinge barrier—nothing could have been more obvious or obnoxious a bar to the outside world. When I pulled up to it, its occupant was watching a monitor carefully.

  That had been nearly two minutes ago. Perhaps he’d forgotten about me, turning into a paper-cut popsicle in the still-cold March air.

  I tried again. “Hello there!”

  The window slid open slowly, and a blast of warm air rushed out of the house toward me. I only noticed it because, even with the Civic’s heater chugg
ing away, I was still wondering about the possibility of hypothermia.

  The man—a guard presumably—wasn’t wearing a uniform, but a smartly tailored suit and regimental-style tie. There was a posh-looking overcoat hung up at the back of the booth. His iron gray hair was expensively cut and blow-dried in the vertically puffy style that Brian would have derisively described as “’possum head,” and he was clean shaven with a tan that bespoke beach vacations or trips to a tanning booth. The whole impact was one of self-indulgence and image consciousness.

  When I’d explained who I was, he’d snatched my letter from me—resulting in the paper cut—and then studied the paper like it was a fragment of the Dead Sea Scrolls. When I called out again, he took his time sticking his head out the window, moving with the lassitude of a reptile in a cold climate.

  “Is there some problem?” I shouted over my engine. “I was told it was all right to move into the house today, even if it is Sunday.”

  The guard looked at me with a disapproving frown, then cast a glance at a clipboard with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “We were expecting you over two hours ago.” He finally handed my letter back to me slowly, but then made no move to wave me through.

  “Got a late start,” I explained, smiling. “Sorry.”

  “Can I see your license please? Some form of picture identification?”

  Usually, this was the part I loved, where I got to say “Open sesame” and enter the secret cavern. I would be initiated into the rites of another institution, become part of another community. When I’d handed over my acceptance letter at his request, I’d at least expected some recognition that, for a while in any case, I was one of them, one of the privileged few who would be allowed to handle the treasures that were kept in the library. Maybe a smile of welcome, even if my credentials didn’t impress him the way I thought they should. But this guy was doing his level best to act the literal part of a gatekeeper and was obviously relishing it.

  “No one had said a thing about needing extra I.D.,” I said, trying to restrain my annoyance; of course they had to be careful around here. He was just being a stickler and for good reason: Shrewsbury held one of the most valuable print collections of Americana in the world. “Here you go.”

  The man made a real show of comparing me with my license picture. If I had suspected him of having the least sense of humor or a working knowledge of Shakespeare, I would have given him my version of Olivia’s inventory: two eyes, indifferent hazel; hair, not so red as to be called carrot but neither so brown as a sparrow; one nose, inoffensive and called by some attractive; one mouth, ditto, etc. The guard was really taking his time; he could have guessed from looking at me that I claim to be five nine and then compared the rest of the information with that on the acceptance letter. I mean, no one’s license looks just like them, but he should have at least believed his own eyes. Something was going on here.

  “Can I have my key, please?” I asked, a little miffed. I was tired and my magic word wasn’t opening Ali Baba’s cave.

  Abruptly the guard, or whoever he was, handed me my license and a key on a fancy key chain. “No need to get testy. Here’s a key to the house—please don’t lose it. You’ll find a packet waiting for you there with all the information you’ll need. Please familiarize yourself with our security protocols. Stop by the main office in the library annex tomorrow morning to get your picture taken for your I.D. I’ll expect you at nine.” He looked at me shivering, then surveyed the dirt-and-salt-covered Civic and was similarly unimpressed. “Promptly. Ask for me, Mr. Constantino.”

  “Thanks.” I rolled up my window with a hand I could barely feel. The striped barrier rose up hesitantly, as if reluctant to admit me. “Jerk,” I muttered, as I got the car into gear and drove up the hill.

  I pulled up the long sloping drive, both sides lined with woods. The trees were huge stately things that gradually thinned out into a large, open area near the summit of the hill to reveal the house. “House” seemed too small and too warm a word to describe the structure. What I saw was a three-story stone mansion, built at the very height of the Gothic revival. The main part of the house had arched windows and was fronted by a tall rectangular tower with a castellated roof. It didn’t matter that the skinny towers that were on either side of the center-hall tower were only decorative, and it didn’t matter that this summer residence wasn’t truly on the scale of the Newport cottages: this place was designed to impress. I knew that I was blown away.

  I pulled off the road to the small parking lot at the back of the house and could see fragments of the road twisting down and around a number of small rises, leading north to the library annex, I figured. It was clear that the house and other buildings were in the southwest corner of the enormous property, because I could see the fence following the stream to the west, and nothing but gently rolling hills, valleys, and woods to the east and south. I noted with some irony that Monroe was obscured, being behind the next hill to the south—nothing to obscure the views of sunrise and sunset, nothing to remind the former—or present—inhabitants of Shrewsbury of the world outside. The stream marked part of the western boundary, then cut across and down the slope on which the house sat, following the road for a while before it cut across that in a culvert and flowed off to the south.

  I tried the door near the lot and found that my key opened the lock: at last. That led to a large eat-in kitchen that looked like it might have been scaled down for more limited use after the family and its staff had left. Contrary to the medieval-looking exterior, it was modern with a stainless steel gas range and refrigerator. It was the sort of setup that Brian and I drooled over but could never think of affording; at this point, I was glad to have walls where they were called for in the kitchen, never mind gourmet accoutrements. A small staircase, presumably for the servants, led up from the kitchen. Leaving that room, I passed a small dining room opposite the kitchen on the central hall, and farther down, there was a monstrous staircase suitable for descending debutantes, epic sword fights, and banister sliding. At the bottom of the stairs, a parlor was off to the right, and to the left was a study. Right in front of me was the foyer and front entryway.

  In the front hall was a small table with discreet notices left for residents, and I found my packet there. There was also a Victorian coat stand, the sort with a seat, hooks, and an umbrella rack, just like Grandpa Oscar and Grandma Ida used to have in Cambridge. On the table I found a room key marked 3, and so began the trek up the stairs. Number 3 was off to the left and faced the front. Just like downstairs, there were four rooms, two on either side of the hallway, with the bathroom in an addition on the back. The stairs that had led up from the kitchen passed through here, on the way up to the third floor that had been the servants’ quarters.

  When I opened the door I saw what was to be my home for the next four weeks. The room was large, with a huge carved bed, leather-covered desk, a straight-backed wooden chair, an armoire, and another chair, this one stuffed and more comfortable-looking than the one at the desk. The windows were large, and I was thrilled with the view out the front of the house.

  For a moment I was overwhelmed by a sense of luxury that had nothing to do with my opulent surroundings: It was privacy. I was free from worrying about which room was packed with the furniture of the room that was being renovated. I didn’t have to think about whether I would have to make a run to the hardware store after dinner to try and get the right-size widget for the third time, so I could have my bathtub back. I figured it was a good thing that I had a superlative husband waiting for me at home, otherwise between the deluxe living quarters and the library, they’d have a hard time getting rid of me.

  But then I realized that I was glad to have a break from Brian himself, which took me by surprise. It wasn’t that I felt any differently about him—I knew I loved him as much as ever—but lately it seemed as if we were spending all of our energy on everything but us. The work on the house was important, but I didn’t like feeling as if it owned us, was driv
ing us, instead of the other way around. Maybe if I had this time to spend on my own research, with no students, no house, no husband to make demands on me, I would be able to get my head into a clearer space to see how better to handle the things that were piling up on top of us.

  I walked next door to the central hallway over the foyer and found that it had been made into a small sitting area with an extension phone and had a wonderful view of the south forty, then the mountains in the distance, same as my room. Back in my room, I chucked my suitcase on the bed and then made several trips for my boxes of books and papers. By the time I was finished I was absolutely pooped, but thought that a walk around would clear my head, show me the grounds, and stretch my tired back. I flicked on my cell phone to see how low the battery was: damn. Plenty of battery charge, but I could get no signal in the house. Leaving my unpacking for later, I grabbed my coat, gloves, and key, and thumped down the stairs, banister sliding postponed for the moment.

  The house seemed to be deserted, but as I headed out back through the kitchen I found the first of my colleagues—who’d probably missed me by coming down the back staircase or through the front. He was a small, pudgy man, nearly bald with a wisp of dark hair slicked across the top of his sweaty scalp. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers that were shiny with wear and tight across the seat. I could hear the muted strains of synthetic music coming out of a pair of headphones clamped to his head—the reason he didn’t hear me enter. He was replacing a bottle of Cutty Sark in one of the cupboards when I startled him, and he turned around to glare at me owlishly through his thick black glasses, nervously muttering, “ooh, oh dear.” It occurred to me that he looked precisely like Morocco Mole without the fez.