So, who killed Leo Dreyer? Not I, said the baroness, with my stiletto. And all the ghosts of Ashwood/Came a-sighing and asobbing/When they heard of the death/Of poor Leo Dreyer…
Except that ghosts did not sob, any more than they existed, and there had been nothing poor about Leo Dreyer, in fact it was Trixie’s guess that no one had especially sighed or sobbed at his death. But the method of his dying, yes, that had been bad. And quite a number of people had probably both sighed and sobbed for Conrad Kline.
The rain was still beating on the roof, sounding for all the world as if somebody was throwing hundreds of tin-tacks on to a metal tray, but beneath it, Trixie caught a sound from beyond the inner door. Someone out in the lobby area, was it? Or perhaps Edmund Fane had not closed the outer door properly and it was the wind. No, she had heard him slam the door herself. But he might have come back for some perfectly innocent reason, or Liam Devlin might have done so. Something to do with the keys or the parking of the cars. But surely they would not creep around out there; they would come straight in, calling out to her.
The sound came again, a little more definitely this time, and Trixie’s heart skipped several beats, because what if there was someone out there – someone who had been watching her as she paced out the murder trail and scribbled her notes, occasionally muttering to herself as you did when you believed you were on your own? Someone who had stolen in after Edmund Fane left, or even someone who had been in here all along. She turned to look towards the door leading to the lobby. Was it moving? As if someone was inching it cautiously open, trying not to be heard?
Trixie set down her pad and pen, got stealthily to her feet, and began to step back because like this, standing directly in the fly-blown circle of light, she was as vulnerable and as exposed as if she had been on a spotlit stage. And the door was definitely being pushed open, she could see that it was.
Before she had taken more than a couple of steps away from the light, the door opened more fully, and for a split-second a dark shape was framed there. And then whoever it was closed the door softly and moved into one of the patches of darkness. Damn! Had he seen her? Yes, almost certainly he had.
She dodged deeper into the shadows, but before she could decide what to do next, there was a sudden darting movement near the door and then a soft click. The friendly illumination from above shut off and the entire studio was plunged into darkness.
This was certainly no spook; ghosts did not switch off lights for goodness’ sake, and she could hear the brush of human clothes against a wall as he – it would certainly be a ‘he’! – began to make his way towards her. She could hear the creak of the sagging old timbers as he trod on them as well: like a hoarse voice saying, I’m creeping across the floor to get to you, my dear…
With her heart pounding and sweat forming between her shoulder blades, Trixie started to back away from the sounds, keeping near to the wall because if she could circle around the edges of the studio, she could get to the door—And if she could do that before his eyes adjusted to the darkness…