Blood upon the Snow Page 11

  “I’ll go look!” Violet slipped out of the room like a little ghost, her bare feet making no sound, her cheap little nightdress gleaming pinkly around her ankles.

  Mark forced himself not to think as he pulled a pair of trousers over his pyjamas and got into a heavy sweater and shoes. He slid a flashlight into his pocket. He was taking a coat from the closet when Violet returned.

  “Not there?” He didn’t have to ask. He saw it on her trembling mouth.

  “N-no. . . . Are you going somewhere, Mr. East?”

  “Only downstairs, to have a look around. Did Florrie have a key?”

  “There’s one hanging on a nail in the kitchen that we take if we’re going to be late. I could show you.”

  “Get something on, then. Shoes, and a sweater if you have one handy. I’ll wait for you outside.”

  He turned off the lamp and stood in the dimly lit hall. Violet’s pitiful and immaculate nightdress touched him as few things had. He thought he would never forget the worn hand stroking the shoddy coat and the pride in her voice as she described Florrie’s hundred per cent. pure all wool.

  She came up silently to join him, wearing battered sneakers and an old skirt under the coat.

  “We’ll use those back stairs you told me about,” he whispered.

  “We can, but we’d have to go by Perrin’s room—he’s sleeping in the house since the fire. You said we didn’t want him.”

  “Not yet we don’t. Well, we’ll go the front way. As quiet as two mice. We don’t want to do anything to embarrass Florrie in case this turns out to be girl meets boy.”

  They reached the first landing without a sound when Mark stopped suddenly and looked back. A light flashed down into their faces and a voice thick with sleep and rage said, “What the hell!”

  Mark put a protecting hand on Violet’s shoulder. “Come on down, Mr. Morey,” he called softly. “No noise, please.”

  Morey joined them, flash-lamp in hand, clutching a bathrobe over his shoulders. “What the hell goes on here!” he glared. “Violet, you’re fired. As for you, East—”

  “Wait. Come on down to the library. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Morey followed stiffly. “It had better be good,” he commented. When they reached the library Mark turned on one light. “We don’t want to rouse the house,” he said coldly. “You’ll understand when you hear what I have to say. Florrie has disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she’s not in her room or anywhere else in the house, as far as we know. And her outdoor clothes are missing. It may be a harmless jaunt with a boy friend and it may not. Violet came to me for help and we were about to check on the kitchen key. We didn’t want to disturb you unless it was necessary, but now that you’re here you can take over. After apologies, of course.”

  Morey’s face lost its angry look; annoyance took its place. “Sorry,” he muttered, “but you can’t blame me. It looked funny. . . . Disappeared! In my eye! She was too tired to sleep in my wife’s room. Upset my wife by refusing point-blank. But she’s not too tired to go off with some man. Who is it, Violet? Don’t stall—you know.”

  Violet drew herself up. “My cousin Edgar is Florrie’s friend and she didn’t go off to meet him. He wouldn’t ask her to do such a thing. She was blue, and she looked terrible, and if she went off on her own accord it was because she had to. Or else somebody made her go.”

  “Well.” Morey looked uncertain. “Well, what do you suggest? That key you were talking about. Let’s look for that.”

  They found the key hanging on its nail beside the kitchen door. Morey took it down, looked at it as if he expected it to tell him something, and put it back.

  “Could she get in without it?” Mark asked.

  “No,” wept Violet. “No. You could get out all right, but you couldn’t get in. She’s down in the cellar with her throat cut.”

  “Wearing hat, coat, and goloshes?” Mark snorted convincingly. “Don’t be silly.” But Morey was already on his way and he followed him. The cellar, open, orderly, and well lit, was empty. Morey went into the wine room and came back with a dusty bottle of brandy.

  “You probably won’t like the taste of this,” he said to Violet, “but you’re going to have a swig just the same. Take her back to the library, East, and get some down her throat. I’m going to wake Perrin.”

  “Any ideas?” Mark asked in an undertone.

  “I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a harmless jaunt. She’d have taken the key with her. I don’t think she meant to come back.”

  “But why?”

  Morey looked at Violet, sitting disconsolately on the bottom step. “She was in a lousy mood all day. I noticed it, but I don’t know why. Maybe the boy friend jilted her. She’d consider herself disgraced. These kids haven’t much stability—or sense. And then again, she may have been in what is quaintly known as ‘trouble.’ There are lots of places around here when she could jump.” He went on upstairs to wake Perrin.

  Mark took Violet to the library and settled her in a chair. He gave her brandy and she took it without protest. She was too frightened to notice anything. He built up the fire and waited.

  When Morey came back with Perrin they were both fully dressed.

  “I’ve told Perrin,” he said. “He doesn’t know anything about it. Now, listen. Somebody’s got to go out with the car and look around. And somebody’s got to stay here. Who’ll it be?”

  Mark said he would do whatever the others decided. He wanted to stay, but he was afraid to show his hand. They might guess what he had in mind. With Morey and Perrin out of the way and Violet as his guide and ally he could comb the house from top to bottom, something he had wanted to do ever since that first morning when Stoneman sat in front of a fire and shivered with fear.

  It was Perrin who settled that. “I think we should all go, Mr. Morey,” he said calmly. “I’m sure Violet can manage here alone. I know she can if she tries.”

  Violet gave a faint scream. “I couldn’t! I’d die! Oh, Mr. East, don’t leave me!”

  “If Mrs. Morey should wake,” Perrin went on, “which is extremely unlikely, Violet need only say that we have gone to Bear River with Florence, who is ill.”

  “That’s it! Back to your own room, Violet. Sleep or sit up, I don’t care. We’ll be back before you know it.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what? A sick woman, two children, and an old man?”

  “But somebody—somebody else might be—here.”

  Perrin spoke sharply. “There’s nobody else here, Violet! I locked this house myself to-night. Nobody got in. Somebody got out, that’s all.”

  She looked at Mark, dumbly.

  “I think you’ll be all right,” he said. “Why don’t you lie down on that sofa in our hall? Mr. Stoneman is the only one likely to wake. You can kid him along.”

  “He won’t wake,” Morey said. “Half a bottle of Scotch.”

  She finally agreed, with her eyes on Mark’s, like a lamb pleading with the butcher. She went to the front door and watched them depart. Then she fastened the chain and went to her room and dressed, weeping silently.

  Perrin drove slowly down the mountain. The snow had stopped, but the road was deep in drifts. It was dangerous, but not one of them thought of that then. They left the car a dozen times en route and turned their flashlights where the trees and underbrush were thickest. Once, Morey stood before a soft white mount and gently prodded with his stick while the wind cried and Mark held his breath. It was only snow. Someone gave a shuddering sigh. Mark didn’t know who it was; it might have been himself.

  At the bend in the drive they looked back. Ivy’s snowman stood like a leering ghost against a cyclorama of dark pines. They walked slowly back to the car and drove on.

  “No footprints except the ones we’re making now,” Morey said. “Florrie must have left some sort of trail—unless she flew. Does anybody know when the snow stopped? It was a regular blizzard when I wen
t to bed.”

  “It stopped shortly after twelve,” Perrin said.

  “How do you know?” Morey asked sharply. “You locked up and went to your room when Mr. Stoneman and I did. That was ten-thirty.”

  “I had some letters to write, sir.”

  Mark spoke thoughtfully. “Not a single footprint other than our own, no car tracks, no broken branches. That means Florrie was out of the house and off the grounds well before twelve, if Perrin has the time right.”

  “I’m not sure she is off the grounds,” Morey said. “But I don’t see how we can do much more to-night. We need daylight and more men.”

  They came out into the road before the station and Perrin stopped the car. Mark looked at his watch; it was nearly five. The little lane of silent houses stretched up the hill to the lonely lamp that marked the end of the way.

  “Look!” Morey’s voice cracked out suddenly. Startled, they turned and followed the direction of his pointing finger. It had been dark before, but now a warm yellow light glimmered behind a thicket of bushes beyond the station. “What’s that?”

  Mark knew. He could visualize the room the light came from. “They’ve heard us and someone’s carried a lamp to the window. It’s Mrs. Lacey’s.”

  “But she—isn’t she—”

  “They brought her home for this last night. Her friends are sitting up.”

  “Oh.” Morey smiled wanly. “This is beginning to get me too. . . . Say, do you suppose we could go over there and ask them if they saw or heard—no, I guess that wouldn’t do. But how about the girl’s family? Do you think we might drive over to Bear River? She may be with them.”

  “If she is,” Mark said, “she’s all right. If she isn’t, they’ll need their sleep to help them face what’s coming. Anyway, how could she get there? Trains and buses don’t run that late.”

  “Somebody may have picked her up. All arranged beforehand.” They trudged back to the car. “What in the name of this and that am I going to tell Violet?” Morey went on. “Hysterics all over the house, nobody to cook and clean. Blast the day I ever came here!”

  Mark made no comment.

  Perrin had a suggestion. “I’ll take care of Violet, sir. At least for the present. Then in the morning, if Florence’s family has had no word, we might inquire among her friends. Discreetly.”

  “Discreetly! In this hole?”

  “If we don’t report her absence ourselves, sir, her family will. And if I may say so, it will look better if we make the first move.”

  They drove home slowly, under the arched and snowbound trees. When Violet opened the door, Perrin took her by the arm and led her away, talking quietly. She made no sound.

  Morey and Mark had a drink and went back to bed. Later they both confessed it was not to sleep. Morey sat by his window, staring at the night. Mark lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Only when the sky turned light did they close their eyes.

  Violet blurted out the story of Florrie’s disappearance to Stoneman when he came down to breakfast. He was her first audience and she looked for horrified attention and emotional response. What she got was a look of sudden surprise which quickly passed. He made it clear that the prospect of poor service was infinitely more upsetting. He had to wait while she plugged in the percolator for coffee and made toast, and when she told him she hadn’t had time to boil eggs he was openly hostile.

  “Gone off with some man,” he said crossly. “Exactly the sort of thing she’d do. But why should that effect my eggs? I’m old—I must be properly nourished.”

  “Gone off with some man!” Violet snatched his empty orange-juice glass. “That’s what everybody says. Well, let me tell you something, when a girl goes off with a fellow she takes her clothes with her. Here’s your toast.”

  “Probably married by now,” continued Stoneman, “and forgotten your existence. . . . Aren’t you going to butter it?”

  She did, but with a scant hand. “You haven’t any heart, Mr. Stoneman. She’d never get married without me. We’ve had it planned ever since we were kids. I’m to stand up with her in dusty pink. Something’s happened to her. You know yourself that she was all upset yesterday. I told you so, and you even said you’d do something about it. Short memory you’ve got. You was sympathetic enough then.

  “I’d be more sympathetic now if I had a few soft-boiled eggs,” he suggested.

  “And everybody was out all last night looking for her. Everybody but you. You slept through it all. Poor Mr. East—”

  Stoneman twisted in his chair. “Here’s poor Mr. East now.” Mark came in wearily.

  “If you don’t mind waiting, Mr. East, I’ll cook some eggs for you,” Violet said pointedly.

  “Never mind.” He sank into a chair. “Mr. Morey’s been talking to Florrie’s family on the ’phone. They don’t know where she is.” To Stoneman. “Violet tell you the latest?”

  “She did. I don’t pretend to understand the excitement. What’s this about searching all night?”

  “Morey’s afraid she may have done something—foolish. He—well?”

  Morey joined them. “Her brother and some of her friends are coming up here to search the woods. I’ve notified the police. Her family asked me to. Coffee, Violet, then you go up and help Mrs. Morey with the children. And no talking, understand?”

  Violet gave him the coffee and left reluctantly. Grief and fear had left her limp and red-eyed, but she could still enjoy her troubles.

  “You’re making a mistake, Jim,” Stoneman said. “You’re letting Violet and all these other people think this may be a tragedy. That’s bad.”

  “Well, what would you do?”

  “What I’ve already done. Pretend a lack of interest or concern. You must keep up the household morale. Actually, I’m as anxious as you are, but in spite of my fears I still hope for a happy ending.”

  Mark drew another cup of coffee. “Happy or not,” he said evenly, “what are you going to do with Violet?”

  “Huh?” Morey looked startled.

  “Violet. Is she going to be another casualty? How can she handle this place without help? Perrin is all right, but he’s not enough. Who’s going to make the beds, clean the baths, plan and cook three meals a day, take care of the kids? And I seem to remember that your wife requires a lot of special attention.”

  Morey answered stiffly, “I’ve already asked Perrin to wire his agency for help, but he seems to think it’s useless.”

  “It probably is. No woman in her right mind would spend a night in this house after she knew what happened to Lacey and Florrie.”

  “And exactly what did happen to Florrie?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not as optimistic as Mr. Stoneman. I don’t look for a happy ending.”

  Morey’s voice was like ice when he answered. “Don’t you think you’re stepping out of line a little, Mr. East? You’re Stoneman’s secretary, not mine. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

  “I may be only Stoneman’s secretary but I notice I’m the one your servants come to when they’re in trouble. If you want me out of the way, say so.”

  “Mr. East! Jim!” Stoneman fluttered his hands and looked horrified. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, either of you! These dreadful days! But you must control yourselves. Jim, apologize to Mr. East at once. He has been a great help to all of us. We need him.”

  “Sorry,” muttered Morey. “But what the hell am I expected to do?”

  ‘‘Ask Mr. East what he thinks. He knows more about the house than you do. Ask his advice, and follow it. Believe me, you won’t go wrong.”

  Morey was still ruffled, but he managed a conciliatory shrug. “I ask you, East. Stay here and see us through this, and then we’ll all get out.”

  “All right. Now—you know as well as I do that you’ll never get a servant from this neighbourhood. Or from outside, for that matter. You might persuade somebody in New York to come up and take the job, but she’d walk out on you within twenty-four hours. So
mebody in Crestwood would see to it that she heard about the others.”

  “You seem pretty sure that Florrie is sunk without a trace.”

  “Not without a trace. I think we’ll find more of Florrie than we did of Mrs. Lacey. You’ve got to admit it looks ugly.”

  “It does. But why heckle me? Lacey upset a lamp or a stove. That’s Davenport’s fault. Even his pal Scott said so. And we don’t know about Florrie yet. I still think she got herself into a delicate situation and has done something about it. She looked like the devil yesterday.”

  “I—” Mark started to say something about the wastepaper episode and then thought better of it. “I noticed,” he said. “But what I’m building up to is this. If Violet isn’t going to crack up, she needs help. And I think I know where to get it. But I want your wife’s permission first.”

  “You can’t get it. She can’t see anyone. She’s—indisposed.”

  “I’ll give you another piece of advice that you haven’t asked for. She belongs in a hospital.”

  “No,” said Morey, surprisingly calm. “She doesn’t. She’ll be all right if we leave her alone. Why do you need her permission? Why won’t mine do?”

  “Maybe it will. I’ll think it over. In the meantime, we’d better join this searching party. Make talk if we don’t.”

  Stoneman coughed nervously. “What about Mrs. Lacey’s funeral? Won’t it ‘make talk’ if we aren’t represented there? Oh, my poor book! All this is too distracting.”

  “I’ll call Miss Pond and explain about the funeral,” Mark said. “If Violet still wants to go we’ll get her there.”

  Perrin came in quietly. “They’ve found her hat,” he said. “On the footpath that comes out of Miss Petty’s house.”

  “Was she going up or down?” Morey asked.

  “They can’t tell, sir. No footprints.”

  “I’m going to make that ’phone call,” Mark said. “May I talk to you later, Mr. Stoneman?”

  “Certainly,” said Stoneman. He looked faintly uneasy. “But whatever you do is satisfactory to me, my boy. Don’t ask my permission for anything. Just do as you think best.”