Blood upon the Snow Read online

  “Thanks,” Mark said. He hesitated, then, “Look. You and your wife are my hosts. If there’s anything I can do for her—cheer her up—why, I’ll try.”

  “I appreciate that, but there’s nothing anybody can do. It’s up to Laura herself. She can pull out of it if she wants to. I think she will; she’s a sensible woman at heart.”

  They left the table and went upstairs. In the upper hall they met Florrie coming out of the broom closet with a dustpan and brush. When she saw them she ducked inside again and made a great pretence of looking for something else. Mark’s cheerful hail brought a mumbled response. For a moment he caught a glimpse of her averted face; it was pinched and hollow-eyed.

  “Poor old Florrie,” Morey whispered. “The chess lung must have been a dud. I wonder if we ought to raise her wages again? She’s doing too much.”

  “They’re all doing too much. Why don’t you get another woman in?”

  “I will. I’ll speak to Perrin.” He went on down the hall to his wife’s room, and Mark turned into his own.

  He thought there was more than fatigue bothering Florrie. She’d been afraid to meet them, afraid even to look at them. That averted face was meant to hide something, but what was it? In another kind of girl it might mean guilt or shame. But in Florrie? Ridiculous. Florrie was a prim little mouse.

  Stoneman was sitting by the window, scratching happily away with a bad pen. He didn’t even know it was bad. They worked steadily until lunch. Mark roughed out two chapters and Stoneman contentedly rewrote and polished his opening paragraph. They were both startled when Violet came in with a tray holding their lunch.

  “You’ll have to eat up here again,” she said stiffly. “I hate to ask you, but it’s easier for us that way. Not that anybody cares how much you do around here.” Her mouth was set in a grim line.

  Mark looked thoughtful. “What’s happened to you since breakfast? You look venomous.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” she said. “I’m mad, that’s all. Plain mad.”

  Stoneman shook a reproving head. “Dogs go mad, people become annoyed,” he said.

  “Well, I’m mad and I can bark to prove it. I didn’t do a thing out of the way and neither did Florrie. But he won’t get me crying! He’s no better than I am.”

  “Came the revolution,” murmured Mark. “What’s eating you, Violet? And what’s the matter with Florrie? Are you kids getting nerves too?”

  “Nerves! He’s the one with the nerve! All a girl does is her duty and someone who isn’t a bit better than she is tries to make me look like I did wrong.”

  Stoneman closed his eyes and winced. “Settle this,” he said to Mark.

  “Who tried to make you look like you did wrong?” Mark asked.

  “Perrin. Day in and day out Florrie takes the waste-baskets from all the rooms and stands them in the hall. And I come along with a big bag that I empty them in and carry it down to the back yard and burn it in the incinerator, day in and day out. But to-day it’s wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask me. He just looks at Florrie and me and says where is the wastepaper and we tell him we’re burning it up like always. And he rolls his eyes and says—I wouldn’t repeat the word—and walks out talking to himself. Florrie is upset worse than I.”

  “Yes. Mark looked thoughtful. “Did Perrin tell you what was wrong?”

  “Not him. He walks out in the yard and puts the fire out and grubs around in the mess. Dirtied himself all up too, and I’m glad.”

  “Well?” urged Mark.

  “Well, I’m sort of curious, so I go out and ask him if anything is lost. He don’t answer that. He says was the trash from Mrs. Morey’s room burned with that lot, and I say certainly but if he thinks there was anything valuable in it he’s crazy. Because Florrie went over every bit herself like she always does because once Mrs. Morey dropped her chequebook in by mistake. I told him there wasn’t anything in this lot but facial tissues and newspapers and a cigarette package with one cigarette in it. I told him I took the cigarette but I’d buy her a whole carton if that’s the way she felt about it. He calmed down after that. But then he went after Florrie all over again and she cried.”

  Stoneman opened his eyes. “Didn’t he ever tell you what was missing?”

  “No. And if you want to know what I think, I think it was a piece of jewellery and she’s afraid to tell her.”

  “If it’s jewellery,” Stoneman said, “then there’s nothing to worry about. It’s all insured. I shouldn’t worry in any case.”

  Violet was slowly, if reluctantly, thawing. “Then you don’t think I ought to complain to Mr. Morey himself?”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that.” Stoneman smiled at her. “He has enough on his mind. And when to-morrow comes you’ll have forgotten all about this—upset. . . .Now, what have we here?” He dipped a soup spoon into the bowl before him. “Violet, but this is delicious! What do you call it?”

  “Pot aw few,” said Violet. “More in the kitchen.” She made a beaming exit.

  “You handled that very well,” Mark approved. “Next thing you know you’ll have her singing again. But what’s behind this tragic burning of the trash?”

  “I don’t know.” Stoneman sighed. “Probably nothing. One servant bullying another.”

  After lunch they worked for another hour and Mark carried the tray down to the pantry. Apparently Florrie was still nursing her wounds in seclusion, but Violet was much in evidence, checking over a shopping list with Perrin. She was being very hoity-toity; still mad, like a dog.

  “Two trips in one day is plain ridiculous,” she told Perrin. “You could just as well have bought these things when you took the children. And don’t say breast of veal to me again. I want a hen turkey. Anybody’d think you were paying the bills yourself. Breast of veal!”

  At last Perrin closed his book and took up his hat. “Will that be all?” he asked quietly.

  “No.” Violet pulled a crumpled ten-dollar bill from her pocket. “This is a little errand that Florrie and I hoped to do ourselves, but we’re both too upset”—she gave him a black look—“we’re both too upset, naturally. You will please go to the florist and order a nice wreath for Mrs. Lacey. Nothing’s too good. And here’s the card to go with it.” She handed over bill and card. “Something pink, if they got it,” she called after him.

  “I feel kind of sorry for that guy, Violet,” Mark said.

  “I fixed him good, didn’t I?” she glowed. “Did you want something, Mr. East?”

  “No. My boss is taking a nap. Can’t I help you?”

  “No, sir, you can’t. You go take a nap yourself or read a book. Go in the library. Nobody won’t bother you and I’ll call if you’re wanted.”

  He did both. He read a book and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HE woke in the dim, firelit room when the clock struck six. The comparative peace of the morning was gone and that old, wary feeling had returned; he felt someone watching him. He lay quiet for a minute, without moving, and listened for a sound of breathing other than his own. Little by little his eyes adjusted themselves to the dark and then the dull ring of a glass set down on a table told him where to look. He made out Stoneman’s figure in an armchair on the far side of the fire. He sat up.

  Stoneman laughed softly. “Tell me, is it youth or a good conscience that lets you sleep like that?”

  “Neither.” He sauntered over, turning on lamps as he went. “I was probably drugged.” Stoneman blinked and said nothing. “What’s that you’re drinking?” he went on.” Sherry?”

  “The glass is designed for sherry. I’m using it for Scotch. Help yourself.”

  He did, and noticed an extra glass, partly filled. “Company?”

  “Jim’s. Laura sent for him.” Stoneman took out a handkerchief and patted his forehead. “Warm in here.”

  It wasn’t warm; if anything it was cooler than it should have been. Mark watched closely. “When I woke up I felt as if—I mean,
is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing unusual. When it grows dark, she—sends for him.”

  “Can’t anything be done about that? She’ll ruin her husband’s life and her children’s too.”

  “That’s what we tell her.” Stoneman closed the subject with a shrug and deliberately turned in his chair. His mood had changed abruptly with the mention of Laura’s name, and he met all further attempts at conversation with a grunt.

  Mark gave up, and until dinner was announced they sat without speaking. Stoneman looking into the fire and refilling his glass too often and Mark turning the pages of a book he didn’t want to read.

  Stoneman’s lapse into gloom had apparently spread to Perrin. Even Morey noticed it. “Are you warming up to be a pallbearer?” he asked. Perrin twisted his mouth into a smile.

  “I question the taste that prompted that remark,” observed Stoneman. He looked as if he would like to throw the knife he held in his hand, and Morey, his handsome face suddenly flushing, looked as if he would return it, accurately.

  “The girls have chipped in for a wreath,” Mark said hastily, “and now they’re wondering if they can both go to the funeral. I more or less promised to ask.”

  “Everybody’s going,” Morey said. “It’s a gala. More bad taste. So they bought a wreath, huh?”

  “Perrin got it for them. Are they pleased, Perrin?”

  The smile that had been no more than a fixture softened into the real thing. “They are, sir. The florist informed me that Violet telephoned shortly before my arrival there, to make sure that none of her money was diverted into beer. He described his stock over the phone and she made her own selection. All I did was pay for it and get a receipt.”

  “What did she get?”

  “A small cross composed of pink carnations, with a ribbon streamer lettered in purple plush.” He deftly served Stoneman with a piece of turkey breast. “The plush says, WE WILL MEET AGAIN. It will, I understand, knock the living daylights out of Miss Pond’s chrysanthemums.”

  “And out of the Moreys’ chaste lilies, I fear. Likewise out of Joe’s modest violets. Frankly, I thought Joe would run to more than violets. You and Mrs. Lacey had an understanding, didn’t you, Joe?”

  Stoneman shook with suppressed fury.

  “I mean she used to fuss with your food and fight your battles with the laundry,” Morey soothed. “That’s all I meant, Joe. Just a little joke.”

  “A poor time for a joke—on the eve of that unfortunate woman’s funeral,” Stoneman snapped.

  Mark intervened again. “You said everybody was going. You don’t mean the children too? I thought they—didn’t know anything about it.”

  “They don’t. We’re leaving them with Mrs. Wilcox in Bear River. Sheriff’s wife. Laura insists on joining the mourners, nobody knows why, so we have to park them somewhere.”

  When they reached the coffee, he asked Perrin to serve it in the library. “And no brandy,” he added, with a calculating look at Stoneman.

  After quantities of black coffee had worked a soothing effect, Morey engaged Stoneman in a complicated game of double solitaire; in a short time the two were bickering amiably. Mark collected a few novels and excused himself. He was afraid Stoneman would object, but to his surprise and pleasure the old man insisted on finishing his game.

  “You run along, my boy,” he said. “Enjoy yourself in your own way. As for me—I may even play another game. Two games. I feel so much better. Do you know, I remind myself of a barometer. Up and down, up and down. We’ll send you a nice toddy, won’t we, Jim?”

  Drunk as a fool, thought Mark. But good-natured. He’d be out cold in another hour. True to instructions, Perrin had omitted the brandy, but Stoneman had provided himself with a bottle of Scotch and Morey wasn’t doing anything about it.

  Mark gathered up his books and departed. Although it was only nine o’clock there was complete silence on the second floor. The hall lights had not been turned on and, what was more unusual, his bed had not been turned down. Evidently Florrie was still sulking. He had meant to ask Perrin about the wastepaper episode, but had forgotten. Just as well, he figured. It was Perrin’s job to keep the girls in line and he might resent interference. Florrie had probably made off with a pair of misplaced nylons.

  He bathed and settled in bed, his books piled on the table beside him. He guessed that a half-hour had passed when Perrin knocked discreetly and entered with his toddy. The fragrant, steaming mug must have held a pint.

  “How’s the game?” he asked idly.

  “They are—fairly well matched, sir, though I believe Mr. Stoneman is slightly ahead. Mr. Morey is encouraging him to win.”

  “Does that mean a long session?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Mr. Morey has instructed me to lock up at ten-thirty.”

  Whether it was the book or the toddy he didn’t know, but soon he was overwhelmingly sleepy. When he found himself re-reading the same page for the third time he decided he had had enough and turned off his light. Let Morey lock Stoneman in to-night. The bathroom was dark, as he had left it. If Stoneman wanted the night light on he’d have to take care of it himself. He burrowed into the pillows and went to sleep.

  Outside the snow fell softly and silently, covering the tracks of nocturnal animals and deadening the fall of feet.

  He slept on. . . . Something travelled lightly over his chest and came to rest on his shoulder. He moved uneasily. It came again, faint but insistent, and this time it stopped on his forehead. He opened his eyes to darkness.

  There was a black shape beside his bed, between him and the open window, cutting off the air, blotting out the faint grey of the snow-filled night.

  For an eternity he counted his heartbeats and then, slowly, he became aware of a soft, rhythmic sound, coming with painful regularity. At first he thought it was his own laboured breathing, but it was too fast for that. Then he knew it came from that shapeless mass. He knew it wasn’t Stoneman. It was too big. He was afraid to reach for his lamp.

  Suddenly the room took form again in the grey darkness. The thing had moved. He could see the window and the footboard. It moved awkwardly and silently, around the footboard to the side of the bed nearest the door. It bent over him. He could see an arm. This time his breath came in a rattling gasp. He gathered strength to shout. Fingers touched his throat. They were wet.

  “Don’t,” he managed to whisper.

  They withdrew. Then close to his ear a voice whispered his name. He recognized Violet.

  “Don’t make any noise,” she said, “and don’t turn on the light. Florrie’s gone.”

  He sat up. “Sit on the edge of the bed,” he whispered. “Here.” He put out his hand, found hers, and drew her down beside him. He knew that she wore a coat over her nightdress and that her hands were clammy. He felt the bed give under her weight. He put his face close to hers. “Tell me again. You say Florrie’s gone? Where?”

  A hot tear fell on his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do and I don’t know who to tell. Mr. East, it’s three o’clock and her coat’s gone too!”

  He got out of bed. “Stay where you are. I’ll be right back.” He groped quietly through the bathroom to Stoneman’s door, feeling his way carefully. But Stoneman’s door was locked. He put his ear against the crack and listened. The old man was asleep; at least he could hear the rasping snore he had come to associate with him. He closed the bathroom door as he came back and turned on his bed lamp, carefully draping a scarf over the shade. He drew the blinds.

  “Nobody will see us,” he said. “Not that I give a damn; and we won’t be heard if we keep our voices down. Now what’s this—about Florrie?”

  Violet, shuddering, told all she knew, which was very little. She and Florrie had gone to bed at ten. Florrie had been very quiet—“not a bit like herself, but you know she was upset all day.” Violet had tried to cheer her up, but it wasn’t any use. Even the morning glories on the wallpaper, that Florrie never failed to smell when she came into the
room, had lost their charm.

  “I turned down her bed for her,” whimpered Violet, “and showed her how there was a little bunch of glories hand-embroidered on the blanket cover, but she didn’t even look. I asked her what the matter was and told her if she was worrying about that trash-basket business she was crazy. She said maybe she was crazy. She didn’t feel sick anywhere because I asked her. I read a magazine for a little while and then I put my light out. She never turned hers on at all. I guess I went to sleep right off, Mr. East, but I never would of if I’d known she was in any real trouble. I just thought she was blue. About Mrs. Lacey. Then I woke up. Don’t ask me why—I just woke up sudden. Her bed is closest to the window and I saw it was empty. Sick after all, I said to myself, and I went into our private bathroom. But she wasn’t there. I even went down the hall to Mrs. Morey’s room and listened, but it was all dark and quiet. And she wasn’t in the night nursery. I didn’t know what else to do, so I went back. She might of been in Mrs. Morey’s room, sleeping there, I said to myself, so I looked in her closet for her dressing gown. Florrie”—Violet stroked her shabby cotton tweed—“Florrie has a regular dressing gown of a hundred per cent, pure all wool. It was hanging on the hook, but her coat and hat was gone. And a dress. She was all dressed, shoes and all, when she—went.”

  Mark patted her hand and held it. It was a long speech for Violet, and it left a chill around his heart.

  “Should we get Mr. Perrin?”

  “No. Not right away. Let me think. How long ago was this?”

  “You mean when I found out she was gone? About ten minutes. It’s a little after three now and I came right here when I saw her coat—her coat—”

  “Violet, nobody gets all dressed up in the middle of the night to go out and meet trouble,” he lied. “She may have been so fed up with the job that she simply walked off.”

  “Without telling me?”

  “Why not, if she was overtired? People do funny things then. Or, how’s this? Maybe she went out to meet a boy, and lost track of the time. That’s happened before, too. She’ll probably come back as gay as a lark. Why, she may even be back now!”