tiny snippets of gossip columns in which they had been mentioned, letters from fans, reviews of their work, souvenir casting lists of shows they'd been accepted for, ads for motion pictures in which they'd had bit parts, publicity type sheets, theater programs and hundreds of photographs of them with their actor friends — their individual careers before they had met each other. He had been Ben Groves, then as now, and she had been Penny Nashe, which she still was, at least in her career. He had started out as a stuntman in Hollywood — which explained how he could have made that spectacular fall down the stairs without really hurting himself — and she had been an understudy for a famous Broadway actress, in a hit musical. All of this memorabilia gave Gwyn a picture of two bright, stage- struck, at least minimally talented, eager and ambitious young people, who had the looks and the desire to make it big in show business. But there was nothing here that explained how these two were capable of driving a young girl mad, sheerly for profit.
Oddly, in these pictures, Penny was not the exact double for Gwyn that she was now. In the past, there had been a terribly strong resemblance between them, of course, an uncanny likeness that anyone would have seen in a moment. They could have been taken for sisters — but never for identical twins. How had the likeness increased? How had Penny Nashe become her exact double?
The second scrapbook opened with about fifty wedding pictures, all in color: Ben and Penny, both attractive and snappily dressed, the happy couple, standing before the altar, having rice thrown at them, being driven off in a limousine; later, the reception, feeding each other cake, dancing, laughing with guests, caught up in a whirlwind of love…
Gwyn looked away from the scrapbook, wondering how such a pair, so much in love, could end up — just a few short years later — to be mixed up in a hateful thing like this hoax. But, she knew, there was nothing to be gained from such speculation, because they were mixed up in it, and facts were facts.
Then, as she leafed through the rest of that book, and quickly through the next, she had some idea of what had driven them to this, to working for Will Barnaby. The tone of the scrapbook changed, from one that promised big success just around the corner, to a sad and sorry account of repeated failures: parts in shows that quickly folded on Broadway, smaller and smaller bit roles in films, and those in films that always seemed to lose money, a lot of benefit performances to stay in practice, then a round of the cheaper summer stock, another decension to work at various year-around New England barn theaters, the move to Britain, the failures there as well…
She closed the books, not wanting to know any more of the details, and she returned them to the trunk. She closed the lid on that box and slid the latches in place, and began to paw through the final mound of stuff, though she thought she'd found enough.
All the way up the long flight of stone steps, with a chill wind sweeping down over them, Penny Nashe- Groves tried to think of some way to convince Ben that it was time for them to get out, to call it quits and admit that this job with Barnaby had been just another failure. If they didn't leave now, tonight, she was sure that they were going to get caught in their own trap. Perhaps this was an irrational fear, but it was a very real one to her. She didn't think they were going to achieve what they'd been hired to do; they weren't going to be able to drive the kid crazy. Several times during the past few days, she had been surprised by Gwyn's ability to face up to sessions with the “ghost” and still hold onto her sanity. She had seemed tougher and more resistant to a breakdown than Barnaby had said she would be. There was a special strength in the girl, perhaps a strength that she didn't even know she had, which came from a long time of sorrow, a strength built upon disaster, a dogged determination not to be crushed altogether. It was the kind of strength neither she nor Ben had proved to have; when times had gotten rough for them, they had given in, taken the easy ways to money, doing things she no longer liked to think about — and finally agreeing to participate in this charade with Will Barnaby. Because they lacked this strength, while Gwyn had it, there was no way they could defeat her.
But how was she to get this across to Ben? She loved him, but she had to, admit that he was bullheaded. He'd set his mind on taking the money Barnaby had offered them, and he would die trying for it, if he must. Nothing she could say would change his mind. Therefore, since she could not leave him, they were both doomed.
Her gloom must have been evident in the way she moved, for he put an arm around her slender shoulders when they reached the top of the steps, and he gave her a quick peck on the cheek. He said, “Chin up, love. This is our first big chance in a long time, and you know it. Our luck can't run bad forever, and this is where it changes. Believe me. This is where — this has to be where — it changes.”
“I hope you're right.”
“I am.”
She knew, however, that he was wrong.
Nothing had gone right for them in longer than she liked to think about. She realized now that their bad luck was the result, not of Fate, but of their own character weaknesses. Each of them, even before they had met, was over-reaching, trying for a stardom he didn't deserve. Together they had continued to over-reach, feeding each other's egos instead of helping each other get their feet back on the ground. Though they had wanted so much, they hadn't had the stamina, the will power, or the fanatical dedication to go after it and get it. And because they lacked that strength, they would fail here too.
She was still thinking about this when, halfway across the lawn toward the manor house, she looked up and caught sight of something that made her grab Ben's arm.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I thought that I saw—”
“Yes?”
He was looking eagerly around the lawn, this way and that, certain that she had spotted the girl, unaware that the situation might be far more serious than that, unable to accept the fact that everything, as she had warned him that it might, had fallen through. This was their one big chance. Their luck was turning. He could only imagine that she'd seen the girl and that they could pick up where they'd left off.
“Penny?” he repeated.
She stood close to him, but she was still feeling terribly lonely. She watched the third floor of the house, but she did not want to say anything, for she could not be sure if she had seen what she thought she had. She didn't want him to think she was foolish. If they were to lose all else this night, at least they should keep their self-respect and their respect for each other.
But then she saw it again, longer this time, and she cried out: “There it is again!” She pointed toward the attic window and said. “Up there, a moving light — maybe a flashlight. Do you see it, Ben?”
“The attic!” he said, his spirits sinking in the instant, staring at the one small window which Gwyn had never noticed.
“Oh, God!”
He said, “If she's gotten to the trunks—”
“She knows who we are,” Penny said, miserably, leaning into him for support. “She knows everything about us.”
“Maybe not anything to do with the hoax.”
“She must know,” Penny said. “If she was curious enough to go prowling around, then she must have had some idea even before she got to the attic.” She tried to hold him tight with one arm, and she said, “Ben, let's leave now. Let's not even go back in there to get our things.”
“That's impossible,” he said.
“No, it isn't. We could—”
But he had broken free of her and was running toward the front door of the manor house. She could do nothing but follow him.
TWENTY-SIX
Gwyn found nothing more important in the last steamer trunk than the four scrapbooks, so she left the trunk's contents jumbled, closed the lid and slid the latches into place. It didn't much matter that she'd found nothing more, for she already had everything that she needed. She knew the nature of the mystery into which she'd fallen, knew the actors who had played in it, and she knew what she would have to do to extract herself from it, to
