Betrayal at Blackcrest by Jennifer Wilde Page A

one wall and touched a switch. A naked light bulb hanging overhead came to life, illuminating the area. I saw something large and gray scurrying along the floor and gave a little cry as it disappeared.
    â€œRats,” Andrea said, shaking her head in exasperation. “The cats help a little, but I’m afraid there’re just too many of them. You aren’t going to be alarmed, are you?”
    â€œN-no,” I stammered.
    â€œThey’re harmless, really. Come. This is the basement. That hall leads to the cellar door. The cellars go on forever, so damp and cold. The kitten will be petrified if Morris doesn’t find it. We keep all the rubbish and rejects in the basement, and the cellars are lower, entirely underground. No one goes down there, besides Jessie, of course. We have a magnificent stock of wine, you see, and she nips. The tower is this way.…”
    We walked down a long, damp hall away from the direction Andrea had pointed. I felt the sagging weight of Blackcrest overhead and wondered if the ceiling would collapse. Bits of plaster hung down, and the beams looked rotten. At the end of the hall there was a large area with part of a circular wall visible. A heavy oak door was in the middle of the wall, and to one side I could see a walled-in staircase winding up into the darkness. This must be the bottom room of the tower, I thought.
    â€œThere were once six rooms,” Andrea explained. “But time and ruin, you know. The top three rooms simply aren’t there anymore, just the outside wall, and bricks dropping from it every day. The cats stay down here in the basement room. Can you hear them?”
    I nodded. From behind the oak door I could hear a screeching din. Andrea cocked her head to one side and smiled. Stacks of chipped purple dishes stood beside the door, and I noticed two unopened cartons of cat food, the most expensive kind. That explained the rats. What cat in his right mind would hunt rats when he could get food like that without effort, I reflected. The creatures inside seemed to be aware of Andrea’s presence. They began scratching at the door, and the mewing took on an unmistakably plaintive note.
    â€œWe won’t disturb them now,” Andrea said. “You must be anxious to see the study and your room.”
    She hesitated. We heard footsteps coming down the hall toward us. There was something decidedly sinister about the sound, I thought. The basement was full of echoes. Even as we spoke in normal voices I could hear the walls tossing back the sound with soft embellishments that made me uncomfortable. I peered into the darkness at the other end of the hall. I could barely see a dark figure moving toward the pool of light spilled from the single naked bulb.
    It was the boy called Neil. He wore a pair of tight denim pants and a black sweat shirt. The heavy blond hair was like a lion’s mane. When he saw me, he paused, obviously startled. For a moment he looked very young and vulnerable, about to retreat back into the shadows, and then his dark eyes grew flat and expressionless and he continued toward us with an exaggerated swagger. He carried a toolbox at his side. Andrea fluttered, delighted to see him.
    â€œHere you are! The cats are freezing, Neil. This is Miss Lane, my new secretary. Neil’s planning to go to Oxford. Must you wear your hair like that, child? I suppose it’s a symbol. Everything’s a symbol nowadays. Masculinity? Samson, you know—”
    â€œHello again,” I said quietly.
    â€œHow do you do,” he said. His voice was very polite and formal. He stared at me for a moment with expressionless eyes, then turned all his attention on Andrea.
    â€œI’ve come about the heating unit,” he said.
    â€œOf course. It’s gone out again. The gas pilot, I suppose. Something’s wrong with it. The poor angels have been shivering all morning. Neil’s so handy with these things,” she told me.