The Lady in the Lamplight

By T A Pilkington

Who is the woman watching from the dim glow of the lamplight outside? Why did she disappear that tragic night, as if a figment of imagination?

Having left a problematic relationship behind in Manhattan, architect Dani moves upstate with her new husband to renovate an old modernist house. The shock of discovering him dead in the hall and Dani’s subsequent grieving are quickly punctuated by disturbing discoveries. Why did the previous owners suffer a suspicious downfall? Perhaps several break-in attempts at the house are related. Someone also appears to be stalking Dani. Could it be the jogger she sees at night? Is she the lady in the lamplight? Dani fears these unsettling individuals are connected to her husband’s murder. But how?

When her husband’s wealthy, but shady, brother, Paul offers to move in to help, Dani wonders about an ulterior motive. Suppressing buried desires, she is drawn to the similarities between Paul and her husband. Visits from her old partner only add to her problems, particularly the irritating memory block surrounding their past. Befriending her stylish female neighbour, Dani finds security footage of the murder, drawing her into an intriguing mystery – seemingly centred on the house and perhaps its secret contents. Dani is shocked to discover the reason behind the whole affair could be close to home – as, too, might be the disturbing revelation routed in her past. The mystery cries out to be solved… before it slides to a fatal conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781528955829

T A Pilkington

Tony Pilkington grew up in a tough neighbourhood. After high school years of drinking, partying, and playing guitar in a rock band, he studied structural engineering and later completed a master’s degree in astrophysics. Tony retained a burning desire to write books throughout, and after a fiction-writing course and an article published in a magazine, he wrote his first manuscript, The Woman in the Wind.

Book preview

About the Author

Tony Pilkington grew up in a tough neighbourhood. After high school years of drinking, partying, and playing guitar in a rock band, he studied structural engineering and later completed a master’s degree in astrophysics. Tony retained a burning desire to write books throughout, and after a fiction-writing course and an article published in a magazine, he wrote his first manuscript, The Woman in the Wind.

Dedication

To my wonderful son and family

Copyright Information ©

T A Pilkington 2024

The right of T A Pilkington to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788786539 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528955829 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Chapter One

A Tragedy

DeRuyter Lake, Tuesday, April 25

I heard a crash from downstairs.

It sounded like Randy had dropped something and it smashed on the floor. I looked up from the cardboard box I was removing photo prints from and noticed darkness had fallen outside through the window. The time had flown while we unpacked the mountain range of boxes on our first day in the house.

You okay, babe? I called from the bedroom, swiping a clump of hair from my eyes.

No answer.

I struggled up from my haunches and left the room to look downstairs. I’d heard the front door buzzer sound a few minutes ago. Maybe he’d dropped something in his haste to answer.

You there? I yelled down into the still darkness of the entrance hall below. Where’s he gone? And why was the light turned off? Babe?

The hall was eerily silent. I could just make out the open box where he’d been unloading wall art for the foyer. It sat despondently in the unfurnished area, barely discernible from the porchlight glow falling through the front glass doors. One of the doors was slightly ajar.

As I moved to the top of the stairs, I noticed the crescent moon perched above a sliver of cloud through the window above the stairwell. Something wasn’t right. Lights off, door ajar. And that smashing sound.

I padded downstairs in my socks and track pants and stopped at the bottom. No voices came from outside. Moving toward the door, I saw the outline of his SUV through a foyer window, silhouetted by the garden lamp beyond.

Then I heard a muffled sound. It came from outside. A grunt? Then… maybe a scuffle? My stomach sank – something was wrong!

I ran across the floorboards, almost slipping over in my socks, until a vague outline of something loomed in through the frosted glass doors.

"Randy! Is that you?" I shouted. The blob through the glass seemed to split into two, like some strange cellular replication. One half moved off to the left, leaving the other to sink downward.

Yanking back the handle, I burst through the doorway, confronted by the terrible sight of my husband lying on the white concrete area, his face contorted in pain under the garish porch light.

Nooo! Randy!

I sank to my knees and stared at him, vaguely aware of footsteps retreating. He clutched his stomach, grimacing. My print of the Chrysler Building lay smashed a couple of feet away on the concrete steps.

Oh God! Randy! What happened?

It was then that the footfalls racing down the concrete drive registered fully. The steps echoed hollowly off the building wall, a nightmare in a horror movie. I jerked my head up and saw a dark figure running down the drive in the dim glow of the garden lamp about twenty yards to the right. Something glinted brightly from the figure for a second. Metallic… a short, sharp blink of light… the reflection off a knife?

D-Dani, Randy whispered.

I quickly lowered my head, trying to make sense of the quick-fire events. God! His pale face shocked me. Darting my eyes to the hand over his stomach, I was sick with worry at what was underneath. Babe, don’t talk.

I pulled his hand away and involuntarily sucked in breath when I saw the bloodied stain underneath. Shit! Shit! Randy. No! Fumbling with his grey t-shirt, I managed to lift it up. Rich red blood oozed from a sickening gash in his belly. He had been stabbed.

My face scrunched up in misery as I choked back tears. I had to stop myself from crying; otherwise he’d lose all hope of coming out of this alive. Y-you’ll be… okay. Just hang on. Please, baby, don’t die. Please! I pulled the t-shirt back and pushed my hand over the wound.

Arrgh, he reacted with the pain.

Sorry baby, I-I need to… stop the bleeding. Y-you’ll be okay. Hang on.

I need to call nine-one-one. Fuck! I left my cell upstairs. Randy, have you got your cell?

P-pocket… j-jacket, he managed.

My face scrunched again, about to burst into tears, but I forced myself to concentrate and felt inside his jacket pocket. Snatching out the cell, I dialled nine-one-one.

Moments later, a woman came on line. Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?

My husband’s been stabbed, I blurted out. I couldn’t help sobbing. "P-please! Come quickly."

Okay, ma’am, where are you?

Between sobs, in a rambling mess of panicked words, I gave her the address.

Ma’am, is anyone with you?

N-no.

Okay, stay there, ma’am. Help is on its way. Apply pressure to the wound.

O-okay.

Chucking the cell onto the ground, I looked back to see the blood stain ballooning out from under my hand on his t-shirt. I glanced at his face and saw his eyes were fluttering. Fuck! Please, oh please come quickly. He’s dying!

I tried to gather myself from dissolving into a jabbering mess. Randy, d-did you see who… who did this?

The twisted grip on his face began to loosen. His body curled into a semi-foetal position. Argh. D-Dani, I…feel…

I couldn’t hold back great racking sobs as I watched him force out words through gritted teeth. "Oh, baby, please hang on." Tears flowed as I watched him struggle for words.

He stared at me, mouthing something, then his face became serenely calm. His eyes glazed over. In a moment, his body stopped moving and he stared straight through me.

Nnnooooo! I screeched into the night and keeled over in tears. R-Randy, m-my darling! Nooo.

Dissolving into a lump of misery, I lay over his prostrate body. Then suddenly, blind hope welled up inside me. His pulse! Maybe he still had a pulse. He could be still alive.

I sat up on my knees, looked to the sky in hope, and reached down to his carotid pulse with one hand. As I looked down, I noticed something near the garden lamp glowing in the distance. A figure? I stared at the steel pole, curved around at the top to direct its glow onto a paved area, while I felt for a heartbeat. What was it? I kept looking as I touched his clammy skin.

I couldn’t detect any life-giving pump of blood beat against my finger tip.

He’s gone!

I was about to burst into a fresh bout of tears when movement caught my eye near the lamp.

I froze. Was that somebody bent over the metal table nearby? Yes, someone was there, faintly visible in the lamp glow.

The dark figure stood beside a row of bamboo trees flanking the left side of a path. Whoever was there, stood at the only vantage point to the house entrance from the garden.

The person had seen my husband murdered!

I jumped up and lunged for the switch on the wall, flicking it on. The lighting under the bamboo burst out in a line of dazzling foliage. The slender figure clad in dark clothing suddenly straightened up like a praying mantis, stood for a moment, then raced off through a gap in the bamboo. I caught a flash of blonde hair as the figure took off. I got the distinct feeling the figure was female: body shape and perhaps a bulge in the chest suggested breasts.

Hey! Wait! I shouted and moved to the left in an attempt to see her exit the other side of the bamboo leading to the drive. All I could see was a dim outline moving away in staccato captions from the lamp light through successive tree gaps.

I stared back down to Randy, my mind overloaded with all that had just happened. It was difficult to grasp what had transpired in just seconds. But cutting through it all was the searing stab of grief, a deep gut-wrenching grief at the loss of my true love.

Friday, April 28

I had never spent a worse three days in my life. The Syracuse police had arrived ten minutes after my nine-one-one call to find me lying on Randy’s chest, sobbing my heart out. The next few hours were a blur. A female officer tried to console me while crime scene people dusted the doors for prints and scraped around for DNA samples. There was movement all around me.

Detectives arrived some time later, asking me several questions in the constant flashing of two squad car lights in the drive. Did I keep valuables in the house? Did I know of any enemies Randy had? No to both. There were several more, but I couldn’t think straight that night. I repeated the few seconds of horror to them as best I could recall.

The next day, I realised I’d forgotten to mention some valuable jewellery my mother had given me before she died. It was still in the drawer where I’d hidden it earlier that night, though.

A Sergeant Holly Mulkane had left me her card in case I recalled anything further. I remembered snippets of her concerned round face. A solid woman, I guessed in her forties, she seemed to command the respect of all around her, including the detectives.

The following days I spent mostly in bed with a blanket over my head, which I tended to do when I was deeply troubled. I hid from the world. I had the presence of mind the morning after, to ring Randy’s parents, though. I’d worried about it all night. I dreaded the call, and was hardly able to speak about what had happened. They were predictably in shock, his mother busting into tears. Wanting to get back to my safe haven under the covers, I told them Sergeant Mulkane would be calling them to ask more questions soon. Then I fell into bed for a three-day blur. The hazy outline from the garden lamp came to me in dreams, seemingly floating off amongst the bamboo. Once, I remembered the face of a blonde woman from the lamp light staring at me. When it suddenly turned into a skeletal head, I screamed and woke up.

I’d gotten up to cook some eggs at some point. Also instant noodles one evening, I think. The rest was a cocoon of misery, my sobbing at the loss of Randy, interspersed with crazy nonsensical dreams of killers, dark alleys, skulls and other macabre symbols. My cell rang a few times in the daylight hours, but I didn’t answer.

I’d gotten a text message from Randy’s brother asking if I wanted him to organise the formalities and the funeral. I gave him the go ahead; the last thing I wanted was to be organising caskets and funeral arrangements in my state. He texted me back later, to confirm some details and the funeral service on Monday. I agreed. Luckily, I’d taken three weeks leave to move into the place we’d bought and begin bringing the classical modernist house back to its original splendour. I wasn’t due back for another two and a half weeks. Thank God.

I wondered how I would cope living alone in the house, now. As soon as I saw the dilapidated home by chance on a drive upstate with Randy, my architectural juices had flowed. I had to have it. That was me: if I saw something that got inside my head, sooner or later I’d surrender to the yearning. When I showed the other architects in the office at Syracuse, they’d shared my excitement at the place.

A two story, classic example of modernism, Bridger Morton, the senior partner, had remarked. "You’ve got to get it! Max and I will help you." Max Stravinsky was his partner, both business and personal.

It boggled my mind that these gems of modernism designed around a century ago were dotted around our country and could easily sit side-by-side with contemporary homes. The vision of those architects was now being repeated a hundred years later with better building materials and modern electronic devices. However, the older forms were just as striking. The Guggenheim in New York came to mind, originally designed in 1944; it was still a marvel of modern architecture that I’d based my final year extension design project on at Columbia.

Randy and I had put our life savings down on the place as a deposit, and we stretched our finances to the limit, borrowing the small fortune we needed to secure the magnificent property. I knew that as thirty-four-year-olds, we’d be paying the place off for most of our working life. Randy’s salary as a structural engineer was good, mine was okay. But now he was gone, I felt like part of me was missing. The desolation at his loss occupied most of my thoughts, but occasionally, the more sane sense of money worry crept in to join it in a disturbing mix.

I hadn’t realised that three days had passed me by when I struggled out from under the covers at the sound of the door buzzer below. I checked my cell and was surprised by the date. Wondering who would be at the door, I removed my three-day-old t-shirt, replaced it with one from my drawer, and pulled on a pair of jeans followed by track shoes.

The warm rays falling on my arms felt good, and I turned to see the sun shining through the oblong window beside the bed on a bright spring morning. The weather played a large part in affecting my mood and the welcoming glow lifted my spirits a little. Get up, go through the motions, and eventually you’ll return to the world, I remembered an actor telling his television interviewer some years after his wife’s death. Maybe that would work with me. Maybe.

The buzzer sounded again. I took a quick look in the mirror beside my bed and ran a hand through my hair. Not too bad for three days in bed, I guess. I ran out.

After hurrying down the stairs, the outline of a tall woman with long dark hair greeted me through the foyer window. She was standing in black athletic tights down the drive, looking up at the house.

I opened the front door and poked my head out to see her. Hi, I said. You rang the doorbell?

She looked over to me. Oh yes. Sorry. She loped up the paved surface toward me. Yes. Look, I heard the dreadful news about what happened. I live next door. She pointed to the large mansion next door, a classic American place complete with gable roof and dormer windows poking out around the walls. I just… well, I came to introduce myself. And maybe offer any help you may need. Or like, I mean…

I detected a cultured English accent, which tallied with her aristocratic nose and fine features. She was very attractive in a British sort of way.

Thanks, that’s kind of you, I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I’m Dani Lynley.

She climbed the steps and stopped before me. Victoria Barrington. How are you coping? I understand you lost your husband.

Just the mention of my husband almost moved me to tears; I felt like she’d scraped an open wound. I… I’d rather not talk about it. I couldn’t even look at Randy’s SUV sitting in the drive further down since it reminded me too much of him.

Her smile faded. "How stupid of me. I’m so sorry."

No, that’s cool.

She looked up at the house again. Love your home.

I appreciated her change of subject and tried to put thoughts of my loss out of my mind. Thanks. It needs some work, though.

I stepped out onto the white concrete porch and looked up. Despite my depression, the simple, yet beautiful, clean white lines of the place still pricked my architectural sense. When I originally saw the place from the road, I’d summed it up as basically two large white platforms, being the first and second floors, with a third oblong platform running between them at right angles near the eastern end. The large horizontal floor spaces were tempered by a narrow but wide spire poking its way up through the floor platforms at the western end. The whole place retained a harmonious balance in a marvellous composition of shapes.

It’s beautiful, she added, running her eyes over the house. I love all the glass hand railing up, too.

Me too. When you stand inside, it’s almost like the outside comes into the place. Nearly all the walls are plate glass, except for the occasional solid portion where the engineer must have designed the supports and wind bracing.

Oh, I know nothing about all that. She looked at me. You’re an engineer?

No. An architect.

How lovely. So when you stand up there you can see all the lush green and rolling hills around you. What a view.

Yep. Sounds like you appreciate the landscape. You’re a designer of some sort?

God, no. I don’t have a creative bone in my body. I’m an accountant up in Syracuse.

Right. Which part of England are you from?

I see you’ve picked my accent. Devon. From a terribly British family. You know, father owns a large property, works in London, sent both kids to Cambridge. I came here a couple of years ago with an American I’d met, but unfortunately it didn’t work out. Haven’t seen my brother or parents, since.

So you like it here?

Yes. Particularly around DeRuyter. The hills and pasture remind me of my childhood in Devon.

I see you’ve done pretty well for yourself, I remarked, appraising the visible portion of the grandiose house next door around the corner of my place.

What? Oh, it’s not mine. God, I couldn’t afford that. I’m house-sitting for friends who’ve gone abroad.

Right. Even better, you don’t pay the bills.

She chuckled. "Yes, I