The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,33

it out there to love.”

“I know. All that snow, getting deeper every hour. But that wouldn’t bother her.” She sighed. “I was in our room, waiting for her. We’ve a room on the ground floor. Miss Postlethwaite’s Sewing Room, it’s called.” She thumped the arms of her wheelchair. “Because of this,” she said. “It’s not terribly handy on the stairs.”

“I don’t suppose it would be.”

“I can climb stairs if I have to,” she said, “but it takes me forever, and then someone has to bring the chair upstairs, and it’s heavy. It’s awful, being a burden.”

“I’m sure no one would call you that.”

“Perhaps not to my face, but it’s what I am, isn’t it? Do you know what’s the worst thing about my situation, Mr. Rhodenbarr?”

I didn’t, but I had a feeling she would tell me.

“Self-pity,” she said. “I am constantly beset by self-pity.”

“That must be awful.”

“You have no idea, Mr. Rhodenbarr. I am altogether powerless against it. I’m quite certain I’m afflicted with the most severe case of self-pity in the history of the human race. It saps my energy and wastes my spirit, leaving me with nothing to do but wallow in it.”

“You poor thing, Miss Dinmont.”

“Yes,” she said solemnly. “I am a poor thing indeed, am I not? I do wish I could find Miss Hardesty. There’s no one like her for jollying me out of a bad mood.”

“I can imagine.”

“But where can she have gotten to?” She gripped the arms of her chair. “Maybe she’s back at our room. She could have returned by one route while I went off on another in search of her. The layout’s confusing here, isn’t it?”

“Especially now, with the lights turned down.”

“And especially when one is in a wheelchair,” she said. “That makes everything just that much more difficult.” She managed a brave little smile. “But please don’t feel sorry for me, Mr. Rhodenbarr. That’s the one thing I’m quite capable of doing for myself.”

Maybe the conversation with Miss Dinmont had disoriented me, or maybe I was sufficiently addled to begin with. Whatever the cause, I took a wrong turn and wound up in the kitchen. I got out of there as soon as I realized where I was, and I’d walked through a couple of other rooms before it occurred to me that I’d missed a golden opportunity to raid the refrigerator. I was seriously considering retracing my steps when a small person darted around the corner in front of me and I had my second near-collision of the evening.

“Oh, hi!” this one said brightly, and I blinked in the dimness and recognized Millicent Savage. “It’s Bernie, isn’t it? What are you doing up so late?” She gaped, and put her hand over her mouth. “Don’t tell me,” she said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re a burglar,” she said, “and these are your working hours, aren’t they? You’re about to break into Cuttleford House.”

“Why would I do that? I’m already inside.”

“That’s right, you’re staying here, aren’t you? I just met your cat again. He’s prowling the halls the same as you.”

“It’s a family tradition,” I said. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Millicent?”

“Way past it,” she agreed. “I went to bed hours ago, and I was just falling asleep when I woke up, and after that I wasn’t tired at all. That happens to me a lot here at Cuttleford House.”

“Maybe it’s jet lag,” I suggested. “After all, England’s five time zones away.”

“You’re silly, Bernie.”

“Everybody tells me that.”

“It’s probably the ghost,” she said. “Cuttleford House is haunted, you know.”

“It is?”

She nodded. “The man who built it,” she said. “His name was Frederick Cuttleford, and do you know what happened to him?”

“If he’s a ghost now,” I said, “then he must have died.”

“He didn’t just die. He was murdered!”

“He was not.”

“Are you sure, Bernie?”

“Pretty sure,” I said. “If I remember correctly, he had an apoplectic fit. And he was nowhere near Cuttleford House at the time. He had four or five other homes, and I guess he was at one of them when it happened, but I’m certain he wasn’t here.”

“Oh.”

“And his name wasn’t Frederick Cuttleford in the first place. His name was Ferdinand Cathcart.”

“Then what happened to Mr. Cuttleford?”

“There never was a Mr. Cuttleford,” I said. “The place was named after the creek. It’s called Cuttlebone Creek, and the name ‘Cuttleford’ must come from a spot around here where you can wade across the creek. It’s not where we came in, though, because you have to walk across a suspension bridge