The Painted Room Read online

Chapter 4

  The Keeper of the Castle

  Carlisle moved his mouth awkwardly in an effort to say something to May. What it was, she never found out, because all at once his black eyes widened, and he looked beyond her. "No, please don't," he said, in a pleasant voice that seemed out of place with his wild appearance.

  May heard something fall behind her and spun around.

  The something turned out to be Sheila. She was passed out on the tiles with her arm tucked elegantly under her head. With her face bloodless and her lips a purplish hue, she could have been carved out of ice. Leave it to Sheila to fall gracefully, thought May as she felt Carlisle brush past her.

  "Is she alright?" May asked him.

  "It doesn't look like she hit her head," he said, thrusting the lamp into May's hand. "Would you mind carrying the lamp, miss?"

  "The lamp?" she repeated dumbly. Then she saw that Carlisle was preparing to pick Sheila up. "Oh, no, no. That won't be necessary. I'm sure she'll come to in a second."

  "On the cold floor?" he said, dismissing the thought. He scooped Sheila up in his arms and stood with her. "Would you mind following—"

  "Like glue."

  He studied her face a moment. "Good. I'll need the light."

  May followed him down a hallway, through a room lined with suits of armor displayed on stands, and finally into a door decorated above the archway by two crossed swords.

  The room turned out to be a study of some kind, decorated in a masculine fashion and which, after the forbidding darkness of the foyer, was surprisingly warm and well lit. Directly opposite the door, there was a continuous row of windows that let in light from the outdoors. The room had several oil lamps and a roaring fire in an ample, unadorned hearth.

  Carlisle looked down at Sheila's face as he placed her on a burgundy leather couch against the wall. "Your friend looks like an angel," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. He turned to May with an uncertain look on his face. "Is that what you girls are?"

  "Are we what?"

  "Angels?" he asked again, looking more uncertain now as he searched May's face.

  "We'd be pretty poor angels, falling in your front door and passing out and all, don't you think?"

  He gave a small smile, inclined his head to the side and scratched his neck with a bony index finger. "Right, I guess you have a point."

  "Besides, she always looks that way. Everybody says so," she couldn't help adding.

  He walked to a small table at the side of the room and clinked around with some glassware, nearly knocking over a green decanter of liquid. He caught the bottle quickly before it toppled, righted it, then carried on smoothly as though nothing had happened. "You, on the other hand, look like you've seen a ghost," he said.

  "I have."

  "Do I look as bad as all that?" he asked casually.

  May didn't know what to say. Underneath the beard and ragged appearance, he still looked to be not much older than his photograph in the paper. Was he unaware of how much time had gone by? She didn't know how to tell someone they'd been dead for over a century.

  He turned and held out a tiny green cordial glass to her. "I'll take your silence as a 'yes'."

  When May didn't take the glass from him, he crossed the room and placed it on an end table of the couch by Sheila's head. "You can give her that when she wakes," he said, pointing at the glass.

  Carlisle walked to a leather chair that faced the fire, turned it around and stood in front of it. He gestured to a seat across the study by the table on which he had put the cordial glass. "I don't often get guests. Will you at least come in and sit down, Miss ... ?"

  May was silent.

  "Miss ... ?" he repeated more insistently, adding a smile.

  "Turner," said May.

  "Ah, now we're getting somewhere. And is there any more to it? Do you by chance have a Christian name, Miss Turner?"

  "Lynn." What was the matter with her? Lynn? Why couldn't she have said something interesting like Moira or Phoebe?

  "I'm honored to meet you, Miss Lynn Turner. And I am—"

  "Francis Carlisle—I know."

  His dark eyes appeared to search his memory. "You have me at a disadvantage, Miss Turner. Should I know you?"

  "I don't see how you could."

  Seeing his face in a jumble of confusion, she entered the room, placed the lamp on the table by Sheila's head, and sat down on the edge of the chair. She picked up the cordial glass next to her, sniffed it then raised an eyebrow.

  "It's just a little water," he said, watching her. "I'm sorry. I don't have any brandy."

  She set the glass back down. It made a clicking noise on the tabletop, and Sheila sat up suddenly with a loud gasp. May jumped out of her skin.

  Sheila pressed the heel of her hand to her temple. "Ow," she moaned.

  Carlisle asked, "Are you dizzy?"

  Looking miserable, Sheila nodded her head.

  "You got up too fast. Lie back down for a while and you'll feel better."

  In no condition to argue, Sheila did as she was told.

  "Miss Turner and I have already met. My name, which Miss Turner appears to know already, is Francis Carlisle. May I ask what yours might be?"

  "I'm Sheila Hazelton," said Sheila, still with her hand on her temple, managing a thin smile.

  "I'm honored to meet you Miss Hazelton. Would you and Miss Turner—"

  "Taylor," corrected Sheila.

  May glared at her.

  "Excuse me?" he said.

  "May's last name is Taylor," Sheila said in an apologetic tone.

  May continued to glare; Sheila caught her look. "Well, sometimes you do mumble, May. I can't always understand you myself."

  Carlisle passed his hand over his mouth and sat down. His eyes flicked to the doorway. After a moment he said, "Now where are my manners? Are you girls hungry? Perhaps we could sit down together over a bite to eat and get to the bottom of all of this. It would just take me a moment to prepare the dining room."

  May wasn't the least bit hungry, but if he left the room, she would have a chance to talk to Sheila. "Yes, I'd like that," she said, a little more quickly than she wanted.

  "Great," he replied, getting to his feet. "If you'll just excuse me, I'll be back in a few minutes." He bowed slightly and was about to take the lamp he had been carrying earlier, but noting its close proximity to May, left with another.

  She waited a full count of five then shot to the far door of the armor room in time to see Carlisle in the foyer. Horrified, she watched him take the front door key out of the lock and slip it into his trouser pocket.

  He glanced her way briefly and she ducked back from the archway, clumsily knocking a black and white striped shield from the grip of a rather formidable looking knight. She lunged and caught it before it fell to make some horrible jangling noise on the floor.

  May let out a breath. As quietly as she could, she laid the shield against the wall.

  The next time she peeked out, Carlisle was nowhere in sight.

  Returning to the study, she collapsed into a chair and bit the nail of her thumb. She was trying to think, but nothing was coming to her.

  Sheila propped herself up on her elbows. "That's Francis Carlisle? The poor guy! He looks awful." She groaned and lay back down.

  "The poor guy just locked the front door," hissed May.

  Sheila frowned. "Well, he's probably just afraid we'll leave. Maybe he's all alone here." This was just like Sheila. She even felt sorry for the dead mice her own cat, Misty, left littered on the stone walkway in front of her house. "I wonder how long it's been for him. You don't think he's lived here by himself for a hundred years, do you?"

  "More like a hundred and twenty, and I doubt it. I admit he looks a little crazy—he could definitely use a shower—but after that long, he would be like stark raving mad, and I don't think he'd be able to hide it either."

  "Oh, the poor man!"

  "Are you listening to me at all? He locked us in, Sheila! This is bad
. Bad! Just how long does he plan on keeping us here? We need to get home!"

  Suddenly May became aware of the loud, regular ticking of a clock in the room. Her eyes found it on the mantelshelf. Quarter to six? It didn't make any sense. She had arrived at Sheila's at eleven in the morning which couldn't have been more than an hour ago.

  Okay, so time didn't make any sense here, but why should it? After all, nothing else made any sense either. Time was probably different here. But what did she know? After all, she'd never been in a painting before. Maybe over a century hadn't really gone by for Carlisle. Although he looked terrible, he really didn't look to be much older than his photo in the paper.

  The other possibility that occurred to her, was that over a century really had gone by for him and no one ever aged in this place. She didn't like that thought. Maybe it was okay if you were thirty-something, but she didn't like the idea of being fifteen forever.

  Then she pictured Carlisle. It didn't seem to be doing him any good either. Maybe it didn't matter what age you were.

  With that sober realization fresh in her head, May popped up from the chair and made her way to the long bank of windows that overlooked the bay.

  She passed a cherry wood desk. It was a wasteland of papers on top. Her eyes picked out a few charcoal sketches: an ocean scene, a human figure; both unfinished, scratched through. There were more, but she didn't have the time to make out what they were.

  May looked out one of the windows. The waves in the bay were calm now. The sky was still close and low, but the wind had died down completely, and the water was once again like glass. The storm must have passed them by.

  She tried to open one of the old-fashioned casement windows, but the clasp was rusted shut. She jiggled the clasps on a few of the others, but those were all rusted shut too.

  Pressing her nose against one of the window panes, she saw a sheer drop all the way down to jagged rocks being swallowed and disgorged by the waves, the ocean leaving trails of whitewash to drain back into the sea. Through the thin glass, she could hear the muffled sounds of the breakers as they crashed.

  That was only a one way trip for anyone getting out by that route.

  She strained her eyes to the left and right. All the windows on this side of the castle looked out over this picturesque, deadly shoreline. May closed her eyes and gave out a frustrated sigh.

  Sheila was at the desk now, exploring the sketches on top, like she hadn't a care in the world— like she hadn't just been locked into a creepy castle by some disheveled nutter who probably hadn't seen a woman in over a hundred years. Sheila held up one of the sketches. "He's really talented, don't you think? You know art, May; you do stuff like this."

  "I used to. Didn't seem to be much of a point. Dad wants me to go into law. Family business and all." The drawing Sheila was holding was of an angry looking old man with big bushy eyebrows. He had a large X drawn through his face. May raised her eyebrows. "He doesn't seem to be very fond of his own work."

  "Well, I think it's wonderful. Just look at this one. It's a picture of his wife."

  "Right now I'm not really interested in admiring the man's artwork and if you had just a little more sense than a gumball, neither would you." Leaving the desk, she said, "Besides, I wouldn't go pawing through his stuff like that. He'll probably freak out. I know if I touched anything on my mother's desk, she'd skin me alive." May stopped short on her way to the door. "I thought this room was a study. Where are the books?"

  The built-in bookcases were piled with clothes and aside from the drawings on the desk, there were no other papers in the room.

  "Not everyone has their nose buried in a book all the time," said Sheila.

  "Weird," said May, continuing to the door. Poking her head out into the armory, she heard footsteps coming fast. Carlisle must have been afraid his newly arrived visitors would vanish, because it sounded like he was practically running.

  She rushed back into the study and sat down. At the door to the armor room, she heard Carlisle slow his pace to a walk.

  He stopped in the threshold and propped his elbow against the doorjamb. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He was out of breath and trying to hide it. He gasped at them, "I've prepared a fire in the—ah—the ... " He took a huge breath and just stared at the sketch in Sheila's hand as though he had forgotten what he was about to say.

  "I—I'm sorry," stammered Sheila, putting down the drawing. "I hope you aren't mad, Mr. Carlisle, but these are absolutely beautiful."

  His face went from stark white to crimson in the space of a second. At first, May thought he was about to yell at Sheila, but when he shifted his gaze to the floor, she suddenly realized that he was blushing.

  With that one act, May realized that he had done the worst thing possible if she had ever hoped to get Sheila to see her side of things.

  Sheila sent her an I-told-you-so look as she came from behind the desk and limped to the door.

  Carlisle darted forward and supported her elbow with his hand. "Miss Hazelton, are you injured?"

  May rolled her eyes.

  "It's my ankle. I think I just twisted it."

  "Never-the-less, you really shouldn't be—"

  May got up quickly, grabbed Sheila's arm and draped it over her own shoulder. "I told her not to become a cheerleader; they're always getting injured. I've got her. You go ahead and we'll follow you."

  Carlisle led them down the hallway, through a reception room, then into an enormous dining room which housed a long mahogany table. Above it, two sparkling crystal chandeliers hung suspended. Neither was lit.

  In an immense fireplace, engraved with grapes and bearded old men, a hastily started fire struggled for life. Carlisle excused himself and went over to nurse the flames.

  The walls of the room were adorned with paintings of satin clad people on a raucous, seventeenth-century French picnic. On a side table were several statues of women in togas, three galloping horses, and a boy with a fig leaf over important parts of his anatomy that Sheila made a face about. Even under the circumstances, May couldn't help stifling a laugh.

  "I can't say I ever cared for that one myself, Miss Hazelton," said Carlisle, pulling out a chair near the head of the table for her. His low voice reverberated in the enormous dining room. He slid out another chair, placed it right next to the first, and patted the seat cushion. "For your ankle," he said.

  Sheila hobbled over and sat down while he pushed the chair in for her.

  He went to the other side of the table, pulled out a chair directly opposite Sheila and said, "Miss—ah—Taylor, is it?"

  May sauntered over and plopped down into her seat.

  "I'll be back presently, girls," he said heading towards a door at the side of the dining room. Before he went through it, he stopped at the fireplace to throw another log on the fire which was finally showing signs of life.

  And throw the log, he did! Sparks flew out of the fireplace in all directions. He spotted one smoldering on the rug, patted it out with his hand, then muttered to himself and sucked on one of his fingers.

  As he got to his feet he somehow caused the stand of fire implements to fall over with a crash. After glancing in the direction of his guests to see if they had noticed, he hastily picked up the scattered fire implements, and placed the stand upright again. When he was done, he finally left the room.

  "That was graceful," said May, wrapping her hands around her shoulders and rubbing them.

  Even with the fire roaring now the place was still like an icebox.

  From the other room, which she began to suspect was some kind of kitchen, there emanated sounds of clattering dishes and a few muffled exclamations of masculine aggravation.

  She leaned over the table and whispered harshly, "I don't want you saying too much, Sheila. We don't know this guy. He could be a complete weirdo." Her hiss echoed back to her from the cold stone walls.

  Sheila looked surprised. "But you read the newspaper article!"

  "Like that mea
ns anything."

  "Well, he just seems kind of sad and sweet to me," said Sheila.

  "Sheila, everyone seems sweet to you. You trust everybody."

  "And you don't trust anybody, so I guess that makes us even." Sheila crossed her arms and put her nose in the air.

  "That doesn't make one darn bit of—"

  Carlisle emerged from the side door suddenly with three plates balanced precariously in his hands. A few moments later, May found herself sitting in front of a dish of sliced cheese, three rubbery gherkins and several spoonsful of lukewarm baked beans.

  The rest of dinner was as cold as the dining room itself. Carlisle attempted some small talk but was met only with stony silence from May and a sympathetic smile from Sheila. Twice, Sheila opened her mouth to speak, Carlisle had looked to her hopefully, but luckily May had been able to shoot her daggered looks both times, so Sheila had sulkily clamped her mouth shut again.

  May doubted she could reach far enough under the table to kick Sheila without making it completely obvious, so she had settled for glowering instead—but she didn't think she could keep her quiet much longer.

  Now, the only sound in the room was the impatient click, click, click of Carlisle's black onyx ring against his wine glass.