long as an X ray for aspirated water proved negative. When the physician- departed, Adrian asked me for an exact account of what had occurred, reminding me to keep my voice low.
How many strange stories could I tell Adrian, I wondered, before he stopped believing me? I began with the phone call from the bam and was quickly interrupted. 'There is no groom named Jack.'
'But there has to-' I didn't complete my sentence. Maybe not, I thought. I believed Brook was responsible for the vandalism; maybe he was also responsible for the call. Had he disguised his voice and manner of speaking? I had thought the connection was poor, but I hadn't expected the call, so I wasn't trying to detect a ruse.
'Did you look at your Caller ID?' Adrian asked.
'I didn't think about it at the time,' I admitted, 'but I don't remember seeing a listing. You should ask Brook the same question. His mother said he received a call about the barn and passed on the message to her. Perhaps he did, or perhaps he or one of his friends was playing a prank. Brook enjoys family fights-they make his life less boring. You should question Mrs. Caulfield, as well. She saw Patrick on the ice and didn't stay around to help.'
I couldn't read Adrian's reaction to what I had said, but Emily's face was transparent: She held me responsible; she believed I was negligent and pointing a finger at others to cover myself. Each time I moved within the curtained area around Patrick's bed, she moved, positioning herself between her son and me, making it clear she didn't want me near him.
'Why did you go on the ice, Patrick?' Adrian asked. 'Kate told you not to.'
'I saw November.'
'What?'
The answer caught both Adrian and me by surprise.
'I saw November.'
'The orange cat,' I told Adrian.
'He was running across the ice.'
Adrian shook his head.
'Patrick, November is dead,' I said. 'We buried him in the cemetery, remember?'
Patrick turned his gaze on me. There was a look in his eyes that I had never seen before-defiance masking fear. 'You killed him.'
'Me? Why would I do such a thing?' I asked, taken aback.
'You don't like him.'
'Patrick, I would never kill an animal, not intentionally.'
'I think this is just a decoy, Kate,' Adrian interjected. 'He's trying to distract us from that fact that he ran out on the ice when you forbade it.'
'The other day he accused you of killing the cat. Now he's accusing me,' I replied, exasperated.
'I was mixed up,' Patrick said calmly.
'You're mixed up now,' I told him, but he had turned away.
An hour later, when Patrick was released, Emily insisted that I ride back to the estate with Roger. I knew I shouldn't blame her for keeping Patrick away from me. In her eyes, her son had nearly died because of my negligence. How did I appear in Adrian's eyes, I wondered-like another Victoria?
On the way home I questioned Roger but learned nothing. He hadn't noticed anyone lurking about; of course, with the fog, it would have been easy to slip unseen from the woods along Scarborough Road to the pond and barn.
'I don't have a good feeling about this,' he said. 'Too many funny things have been happening lately.'
'Do you have any idea what is going on?' I asked.
'No idea, no idea at all, just a bad feeling that we haven't seen the last of it.'
That evening, Emily told me she would take care of Patrick herself. I nibbled on a late dinner alone in my room, wondering why she was letting him stay up. Finally, when it was well past his bedtime and I hadn't heard anything below, I took the back steps down to his room. I discovered that the door at the bottom had been locked from the other side. Taking the main stairs down, I found Patrick's door to the hall wide open, his room empty.
I was about to return to my quarters when I heard a ruckus downstairs. Someone was knocking on the front door and repeatedly ringing the bell.
'Henry, I told you not to answer it,' Mrs. Hopewell called out.
I hurried across the second-floor hall and down the steps, then paused at the landing. Henry, retreating toward the kitchen, met my eyes for a moment.
'What the devil is going on, Louise?' Adrian shouted. He sounded as if he was emerging from the office.
'It's a trespasser,' she told him. 'I was just about to call the police.'
'Do you know who it is?'
'A local boy.'
Sam, I thought. He was supposed to call after practice.
When I heard Adrian's heavy footsteps moving toward the front door, I hastened down the last set of steps. Having lost her battle, Mrs. Hopewell marched off to the kitchen.
'Hello, Sam,' I heard Adrian greet him. I hope you haven't been waiting too long.'
'Where's Kate?' Sam replied, in no mood for pleasantries.
'I do apologize,' Adrian continued. 'Mrs. Hopewell protects us a little too well at times.'
I want to talk to Kate.' Sam saw me crossing the hall toward them. 'Why didn't you answer your phone?' he demanded.
'Because it's in the bottom of the pond.'
I tried the house number. The old gargoyle wouldn't let me through.'
I saw the flicker of a smile on Adrian's face at Sam's reference to Mrs. Hopewell. 'Kate,' he said, 'I'm working in the office, and Emily has Patrick with her. She wants to keep him in our room tonight. The others have gone to their wings, so use whatever room you want here on the first floor. I will tell Mrs.
Hopewell to remain in the kitchen.' He turned toward the office, then turned back. 'I'm afraid I'm somewhat old-fashioned when it comes to young men and ladies,' he added with another wisp of a smile, 'and must ask that you keep the door open wherever you are.'
I nodded and led Sam into the library because that was the warmest room. I could still feel the pond's cold in my bones.
'I thought something had happened to you,' Sam exploded, once we were inside the paneled room. 'If you knew I couldn't get through, why didn't you call me?'
'I–I forgot about my phone. So much was happening.'
'You make me crazy,' he said, turning his back on me, banging the palm of his hand against the fireplace mantel.
'I'm sorry. I really am sorry.'
'Yeah-yeah… So what's been going on?' he asked, his voice moderating, sounding almost flat.
'Patrick fell through the ice in the pond.'
Sam spun around.
'Could we sit down? It's been a long day.'
'Not near the fireplace,' he said. 'Sound travels through flues.'
We went to the corner of the room. Sam tried the Westbrooks' deep leather chairs, then sprawled on the rug. I sat on the floor facing him, hugging my knees, and recounted what had happened, backtracking to Dr. Parker's theory to explain why Patrick and I were at the pond.
At the end, Sam sighed. 'I don't believe in that kind of stuff. And I especially don't believe a theory by a guy who wears pink glasses. Even so, it's creepy the way Patrick senses things when they are dead.'
'I've been thinking about that,' I replied. 'Orange tabbies are common, and November has probably fathered a few litters. Since little kids don't always grasp the finality of death, Patrick may have seen an orange cat and thought-or hoped-it was November. He may even have imagined the whole event.
