Free Wherever Lynn Goes by Jennifer Wilde Page A

indulgences of that era, and none of the virtues. Five ornamental gables reared up for no purpose, and the spacious veranda was festooned with Victorian gingerbread woodwork. The house, once white, was now a dismal gray, and the multi-level slate roof was more bronze than green. The drive led around the right side to the carriage house in back, which was in slightly better condition. The lower half had been converted into a modern garage, and an outside wooden staircase led to rooms above it.
    I parked the car in front, and Mandy and I climbed out. She seemed enchanted with the place, while admitting that she expected bats to come swooping out of the windows. As we stood there looking up at the house, a distant roll of thunder sounded ominously. The sky, so vividly blue before, was growing darker as gray clouds began to congregate.
    â€œIt’s got atmosphere,” Mandy said, “definitely. It looks like a setting for an old-fashioned horror movie. I do hope there’s a damp, shadowy old cellar.”
    â€œThere is,” I assured her. “Attics, too. Are you sure you want to stay here, Mandy?”
    â€œOf course. I think it’s ever so exciting, luv. I’ve never been in a house where a murder was committed. There’s a flash of lightning. It’s going to storm. Perfect.”
    â€œWe don’t have to stay here, you know.”
    â€œI know.”
    Although she spoke in a light, merry voice, I could see that she had reservations. The house was indeed desolate-looking, and what had happened here just a few days ago made it seem all the more forbidding. It had been sheer folly to come, I realized, but for some perverse reason I was reluctant to go back to the village. That would have been an admission of defeat.
    Another rumble of thunder sounded as we moved up the worn wooden steps and onto the shadowy veranda. The floor creaked alarmingly, and there was the sour smell of mildew and decay. The veranda ran around all four sides of the house, with French windows opening onto it. A tarnished brass knocker was attached to the center of the wide, dark oak door. I suddenly realized that I didn’t have a key. Mandy solved that problem by turning the brass doorknob and pushing the door open. It swung inward with much groaning of its hinges. As we stepped into the hall, I wondered why the door hadn’t been locked.
    Enough light streamed through the front windows to reveal the dark parquet floor, the mahogany wainscoting and hideous William Morris wallpaper of brown, orange, and maroon swirls. A chandelier with a blue and red glass shade hung from the high ceiling, and along the right wall the dark staircase with its shabby maroon carpet rose up into shadows. A narrow hall beside the stairs led back into the kitchen regions. I stared at the huge grandfather clock, the heavily carved table, the wingback chairs, one purple, one maroon, both faded. How well I remembered the curtains of heavy burnt-orange velvet looped back on either side of the archways leading into adjoining rooms, the dusty green plants in their Oriental brass planters, the general impression of gloom.
    â€œCozy,” Mandy said blithely. “The table’s Jacobean, by the way, and worth a fortune. So is the chandelier. Cecil would go wild.” Cecil was an antiques dealer who had an exclusive, frightfully expensive shop in London. Mandy ran her finger along the highly varnished table top. Both of us were tense, though Mandy was trying her best to hide it.
    â€œThe house is full of old furniture and Victorian knick-knacks,” I remarked in a conversational tone. “There’s even a glass case in the sitting room filled with stuffed birds—”
    I cut myself short. Mandy was staring at the rusty brown stains near the foot of the staircase. I stared at them too, unable to look away. They were barely discernible against the dark wood, but they were unmistakable. Mandy’s cheeks were slightly pale,