Blood upon the Snow

  Other Dover Books by Hilda Lawrence

  A Time to Die

  Death of a Doll

  A Mark East Mystery

  blood upon the snow

  HILDA LAWRENCE

  DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  MINEOLA, NEW YORK

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1944, 1971 by Hilda Lawrence

  All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2018, is a newly reset, unabridged republication of the work originally published by Simon & Schuster, New York, in 1944.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lawrence, Hilda, author.

  Title: Blood upon the snow / Hilda Lawrence.

  Description: Dover edition. | Mineola, New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017055589| ISBN 9780486823133 (paperback) | ISBN 048682313X

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3523.A9295 B58 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017055589

  Manufactured in the United States by LSC Communications

  82313X012018

  www.doverpublications.com

  Walk softly, March, forbear the bitter blow;

  Her feet within a trap, her blood upon the snow,

  The four little foxes saw their mother go—

  Walk softly.

  “Four Little Foxes,” Lew Sarett

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  A Mark East Mystery: A Time to Die

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE snow was falling thick and fast when the last train of the day clattered into Crestwood at eight o’clock. The last bus also arrived, a split second before the train; it careered across the tracks in front of the hissing locomotive and came to rest against the station platform. The platform shuddered.

  The stationmaster didn’t even look out of his window. His Saturday nights were all alike and he knew what to expect. He knew Florrie was on the train with a basket of produce from her father’s farm beyond Bear River and he knew he’d find a day-old newspaper in the mailbag, with maybe a picture postcard from sunny Florida for the two old maids up the lane. He knew the bus would be empty, as usual, but that wasn’t his business. He suspected a new gouge in the platform, and that was. He pulled a knitted cap over his bald head, buttoned a leather jacket over his thin frame, and was well into the customary invective when he stepped out into the cold.

  He looked neither right nor left, but immediately joined the engineer and the bus driver in a whispered exchange of acid remarks—whispered in deference to Florrie’s presence. This, plus a little gallantry with Florrie’s basket, kept him busy and happy. That was how he failed to see the stranger with two suitcases who swung down from the last coach.

  The stranger was in no hurry. He stood in the shadows and watched the little group under the lanterns at the far end of the platform. The men were quarrelling cheerfully; the girl was apathetic and obviously waiting. They all looked harmless and normal, even a little stupid, and he knew they hadn’t seen him. That gave him an idea. Later, he called it a hunch. He deliberately stepped behind a clump of ornamental firs and waited for them to disperse.

  Across the snowy lane that separated the station from the dark encroaching mountain, a private driveway yawned like an open mouth. He transferred his interest to this. He stiffened to attention when a subdued roar filled the night and the headlights of a car cut through the trees.

  A long black limousine swooped out of the driveway and drew up to the station. The girl with the basket hurried forward and climbed in; the car whirled back into the driveway, and he watched its lights as it twisted and turned up the mountain. It was a foreign car, and he told himself it looked like a hearse; he also told himself that he’d missed a ride.

  A limp sack of mail hit the platform. The train, trailed by the bus, moved off in a shower of sparks and flying snow. The stationmaster swung his lantern, clumped down the platform, and re-entered the building. The door closed behind him.

  Crestwood, with its single lane of little houses, lay quiet under a white shroud.

  In the third cottage from the upper end of the lane Miss Beulah Pond sat at her parlour window, enjoying the view. Like a picture, she thought, with the mountain and the trees and the nice clean snow coming down like feathers. It ought to be Christmas Eve. She rocked happily, her hands idle, her only light the glow of a dying fire.

  The soft white flakes piled up against the sill and buried the little lane that wound uphill outside her gate. Mother Nature’s Blanket, she said fondly. It was the last time she ever called it that.

  There were no houses across the way from Miss Beulah’s, only a wall of pines. It was a dark, romantic view, and somehow sad. It made her think of the poor little match girl who froze to death, and the other little girl whose cruel stepmother dressed her in newspapers and sent her out in the storm to find strawberries. Snow always made Miss Beulah think of things like that, pretty, childish things with death and tears in the background. Miss Beulah had the imagination of her century and she had read too many books when she was young.

  So there she sat shivering a little and scaring herself pleasantly. She closed her eyes and conjured up her favourite pictures: a tiny bird, quite stiff and cold, undoubtedly dead; two ragged babies huddled in the snow, most certainly dead or sure to be in an hour or so. She saw a graveyard—was it a graveyard? No, it was a lonely mausoleum, deep in drifts, with footprints leading away from the door. Miss Beulah jumped. She was getting beyond herself. Footprints away from the door! She called herself several harsh names and decided on a hot toddy. Perhaps, even, a double hot toddy.

  Halfway to the kitchen she turned back to the window again. She never knew why, but turn she did; and there they were exactly as she imagined them. Footprints, deep and fresh, climbing up the middle of the lane.

  They couldn’t be coming from a mausoleum, she told herself as she raised the window with trembling hands. There wasn’t even a graveyard for miles around. At least there wasn’t anything you could call a graveyard; nothing but that old, abandoned— She clung to the sill and peered up the lane.

  A single lamp stood at the bend where the lane turned into the mountain trail. Veiled in snow, it shed a feeble light. But that was light enough to show the figure of a man. A strange man, with two suitcases, turning into the mountain trail as if he knew his destination. But what could that be? The trail led nowhere, unless you counted the observation tower three miles up. Or the hunting lodges. That was it, of course. He was one of those hunters.

  She closed the window and sank back into her chair. To-morrow morning she’d ask Amos all about him. He’d probably come in on the train and Amos would know his name and everything. Even if he’d come on the bus, Amos would know. Summer people called Amos the Herr Gestapo. Well, in a way . . .

  She abandoned the mausoleum with reluctance. Too bad. It was her masterpiece to date and it would have been wonderful for scaring Bessy Petty. It had even scared herself. She paid her imagination the tribute of a shiver. So natural-looking; she could remember every detail. . . . Maybe Bessy was right—maybe she was psychic after all. Maybe—the stranger wasn’t a hunter. Maybe—

  Someone knocked at
the door.

  She froze in her chair and waited. The knock came again.

  She held her breath and whispered the names of possible callers, telling them over and over with dry lips, letting them fall like the beads of a rosary. No, it was none of them. She knew that. And there was no chain on her door.

  She raised her eyes to the window. A man’s face, grinning, was pressed against the glass.

  “Did I startle you?” The voice was strong and apologetic and young. “I’m sorry. I only want to ask directions. I think I’ve lost my way.”

  That was better, much better, but it wasn’t enough. She raised the window an inch. “Where are you—coming from?”

  He sounded puzzled. “The station. I’m looking for someone named Stoneman, and all these houses seem to be empty—except yours.”

  Stoneman. The old man up the mountain. The old devil, according to Florrie. But alive. She raised the window another inch.

  “If he’d known you were coming he’d have sent a car to meet you,” she said, peering cautiously.

  “He doesn’t know. I mean he doesn’t know I’m coming to-night. But he more or less expects me, sometime. If you’ll just start me off in the right direction. I don’t want you to catch cold, standing there.”

  She began to relax. “It’s a long walk. You’d better let me telephone.”

  “Oh, no! No thanks! That would be an imposition. You see, it’s my fault that I wasn’t met. I forgot to let him know.” He was close enough to note the weather-beaten skin of her seamed old face. One of these hikers, he decided; one of these trampers in the rain and snow. “I’d rather walk,” he said engagingly. “We city people don’t get enough exercise.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she said promptly. “You’re the first one I ever heard admit it. Well, now, you’ll never get there if you follow that trail. I mean it would be dangerous. You must go back to the station and turn into that big driveway. It’s the only one there and you can’t miss it. The house is about a mile up the mountain. . . . Don’t you want to leave your luggage with me? You could send for it in the morning. Or come for it,” she added archly.

  “No.” He shifted the bags and she saw that one was heavier than the other. “No, I’ll carry them.” Her left hand was resting on the sill; there was no ring on it. “Thank you, Miss—?”

  “Pond,” she said graciously. “Beulah Pond. Lived here all my life. Come in to call whenever you can. That is, if you’re staying any length of time.”

  “I will. Thank you again.”

  She watched him trudge down the middle of the lane, adding new prints to the pattern he had made before. “A nice young man,” she said, closing the window and locking it. “Wholesome. I wonder what he’s going to do up there?”

  She mixed her toddy and returned to the fire. Frozen children and snowed-in mausoleums dissolved in that dual warmth; the vision of a flesh-and-blood stranger took their place.

  “If he stays here”—she took a long, contented swallow—“if he stays here we may get to know him very well. And that’ll be a nice change.”

  She finished her drink and went upstairs to bed. After she said her prayers she remembered that she hadn’t asked his name.

  His name was Mark East. He was short of breath and pleased with himself when he reached his destination. Thanks to that instinctive hunch, things were going his way. He had made a natural and successful contact with one of the natives and that was always good; and he was descending on an immediate and dubious future without giving it time to set the stage.

  He checked his surroundings with one quick look. No lights showing, although it was still early; no dog, and somehow he had expected several. The architecture called for dogs, loose and chained. In the black-and-white night the house loomed like a small castle. He took a card from his wallet and pulled the bell. “Stone floor,” he said when he heard the footsteps inside.

  The door opened. He recognized the man who had driven the black car to the station.

  “My name is East,” he said, offering the card. “I believe Mr. Stoneman expects me.” He followed the man into a wide hall. One lamp burned dimly.

  Dark, quiet rooms opened on each side of the hall; there was an odour of flowers and cleanliness. He had more or less expected confusion, hidden from the average eye but visible to him, and he was disappointed. The servant hung his hat and coat in a closet and picked up the suitcase.

  “Mr. Stoneman gave us no definite instructions, sir, but we knew you would be coming in a day or so. I’m sorry you were not met.” No more than that; no surmise about the train or the method of his arrival.

  “Have you dined, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you. Do I see Mr. Stoneman to-night?”

  The man hesitated at the foot of the stairs. “No, sir. Mr. Stoneman is not well. I think it will be wise to wait until morning. . . . If you will follow me.”

  He was shown into a large ugly room, full of heavy furniture and red damask. “Don’t bother to unpack,” he said quickly, as the man bent over his luggage. “I’ll do that later. Is there any particular hour for breakfast?”

  “It will be served when you want it, sir. Either in your room or downstairs.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Perrin, sir.”

  “Well, thank you, Perrin. This will be very comfortable. Good night.”

  He waited five minutes, then he went out into the hall. There were other doors, all closed, and one of them was marked linen. He listened carefully before he opened it. It was a deep closet and at the far end he found a chest filled with summer blankets and moth balls. He returned to his room and came back with the heavier suitcase. He put this in the bottom of the chest and covered it neatly. “Safe until spring,” he murmured, “or until to-morrow.”

  He undressed and went to bed, marvelling at his courage when he left the door open. But for a long time he lay awake, watching the hall.

  The next morning Mark East sat before the library fire, an empty breakfast tray at his elbow. On the other side of the fire, hiding his shaking hands under a shawl, sat Joseph Stoneman. Stoneman’s bloodshot eyes measured the younger man’s length and breadth and he smiled as if his calculations pleased him.

  “You’ll do,” he said. “I read your credentials very carefully. They are really—splendid.”

  “They should be,” Mark smiled back. “I wrote them myself. I’m my own boss.”

  “Oh!” Stoneman looked startled. “I didn’t know. This business of engaging people through correspondence has its surprises. However, in this case I am singularly fortunate.” He looked as if he were begging for a pretty speech in return, but none came. He tried again. “So you yourself are the Wood Agency? That is splendid, splendid. So many fine opportunities these days. But aren’t you rather young to have a business of your own?”

  “My looks are deceptive,” Mark said. “I’m very old, very mean, and suspicious.”

  He let that sink in while his eyes moved about the room. He looked as if he were taking an admiring inventory but actually he was straining his ears for the sound of voices or footsteps. He knew there were other people in the house, but except for Stoneman and Perrin he’d seen nobody.

  Stoneman coughed. “You found your room quite comfortable?” he asked. “I think it’s a dreadful room myself and we shall change it as soon as possible. Perrin didn’t know. You surprised us by arriving so—suddenly.”

  “Don’t bother,” Mark said amiably.

  The old man stirred uneasily. He gave up all pretence of hiding his shaking hands. He held them in his lap, tightly, until the knuckles showed white.

  Mark thought he looked like a worn little curate with a bad conscience, so he gave him a reassuring smile. He’d used that smile with the difficult ones before and it always lulled them into saying more than they meant to.

  “I’m—I’m sorry I couldn’t welcome you personally last night,” Stoneman said. “You must have thought it extremely odd. But the truth is—I was the victim of
one of my—attacks.”

  In bottle formation, Mark thought. Out loud he said, “Oh that’s all right.”

  “And I was most distressed to hear that you walked up from the station. You did walk, didn’t you? . . . If you’d only telegraphed—we’re not savages here—you’d have been properly met. As it happens, the car did go down. For one of the maids. But no one remembers seeing you.”

  “Forget it,” Mark said carelessly. “I like to walk. I always walk when I come into a strange town on a strange job. I like to know where I am. In my work we always prepare for two exits, one proper and one unorthodox.”

  “What an extraordinary remark! And how unkind!” Stoneman looked ready to cry. “Surely, Mr. East, there’s nothing strange about this! I wrote you most explicitly. I gave you all the details. It’s really very simple.”

  “Yes. That’s why I came. The simplicity got me.” Mark used the reassuring smile again. Look,” he said. “You’re spending the winter here with some very old friends named Morey. These Moreys rent the house from somebody. They have two children, girls, and judging from the looks of the place they have plenty of money also.”

  “S-s-sh, not so loud, my boy.” Stoneman twisted around in his chair to get a better look at the portières that covered the door to the hall. “Money—you know it’s not quite nice to speak of money in connection with—possessions. Much better to say that my friends have good taste. But—you’re very observing.”

  “Yes. I just observed you looking anxiously in the direction of the door. There’s nobody out there now. I’ve been watching.”

  Stoneman looked hurt. “I only—I thought I felt a draught Really, you are disconcertingly abrupt. But I like it, I like it. Frankness is a fine thing. Now—you were saying?”

  “I was saying something in bad taste about money and I might as well go on. You’re offering me too much money for the work you want done, Mr. Stoneman. It worries me, it’s too easy. My frankness again. I’m to live here with you and eat in the dining room like one of the family, and all I have to do is take a little shorthand in the morning and do a little typing in the afternoon. And get seventy-five a week. Does that sound simple to you?”