The Devil's Scribe Read Free Page B

ways to kill a man. To go to such lengths to snuff out a man’s life could only be seen as the height of cruelty. Of course, there was a reason for it, but I could not share that part of the secret with Edgar.
    I watched as he riffled through a series of questions in his mind, unsure if I was playing a trick on him or if this was the first sign that I was not in control of my senses. “Please, Lanore, assure me that you had good reason to do something so . . . extreme. That you were in fear for your life, that he was a brute . . .”
    “Rest assured, he was a most deserving victim.”
    “And you came all the way from Europe to make sure that your secret hasn’t been discovered? The house stands, your secret is safe—and yet you are still uneasy, more so than before we came to this place.” He puzzled over this for a moment longer. “You are still afraid . But afraid of what? Surely, the man’s been dead for years now. You have nothing to fear from a dead man.”
    My gaze flicked to the hard stone wall and back to Edgar. I was still afraid. I’d imagined I’d feel liberated once I spoke the truth aloud, but that wasn’t so. I hadn’t found peace or absolution in either making the journey or unburdening myself to a stranger.
    “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said, comprehending that much.
    What was hidden behind that wall was more frightening than even a practiced storyteller such as Edgar could imagine. Edgar thought I was a mere murderess, when in truth I was far worse. What would he have done if he knew I’d sentenced a man to an eternity trapped in a cell not much bigger than a coffin? That is why I found no peace after admitting my deed to Edgar: my greatest fear was not that someone would learn of what I’d done. My greatest fear was that anyone heartless enough to condemn a man for eternity had no right to freedom. I deserved to be entombed behind a wall, too.
    Edgar observed me with such dread—coming to grips with the fact that he might be in the presence of a monster—that I had to squeeze his hand hard to break his stupefaction. “Forget what I’ve told you, Edgar,” I rushed to say. “I’m afraid I have frightened you! I was only telling you a story, thinking that I could match your cleverness, but I’m afraid I haven’t your skill at storytelling and have gone too far.”
    Edgar managed a crooked smile but I could tell he wasn’t fooled. He projected the unease of a man who’d gotten more than he’d bargained for. He laughed, weakly. “Has it all been a game? My hat’s off to you, then, my dear, for you had me fooled.” His false cheer didn’t work on me. He knew I’d told him the truth. Now the question was what he’d do with this knowledge.
    It was time for me to take the matter in hand and bring our encounter to a close. “All right, then, Edgar. I’d prefer to see you leave the premises first, if you don’t mind. And I’ll be checking out of the hotel forthwith, in case you think you might try to find me later. This is where we part.” He had his story; I’d delivered on my promise, as much as I’d ever share with anyone.
    He listened to me with a queer smile on his face, a look of pleasure and cunning, and tipped his hat to me one last time. “Good evening, Lanore. I thank you for your story. It is a far more precious gift than you can imagine,” he said before turning and walking away calmly, disappearing into the twilit night. I was glad to be rid of him, for there was something truly odd about him. He could be pitiless, in his gently insistent way.
    Once Edgar was gone, I turned back to the house, facing the part of the stone foundation not buried behind earth. The niche in which I’d walled up my tormentor was toward the back of the house and beyond my reach. He had to be there, behind a stone wall a yard thick, for the house and grounds were too pristine to have been disturbed. Indeed, the place was so still and lifeless, I wondered if the man