Blood upon the Snow Page 6

  “Used to court Ruthie Brown when they were children. Lost her to Billy Lacey. . . . He’d sort of begun his courting again.”

  Mark emptied his glass.” Welcome to Crestwood,” he said. “Beautiful, parklike, peaceful. The score to date—one dead and one heartbroken.”

  “You need another drink,” Morey said.

  “No I don’t. . . . Three-thirty. . . . I’ve lost track of time.”

  “If you’re going to ask me when the thing started, I don’t know,” Morey said. “Perrin says between 11.30 and 11.45, but it might have been later. Or sooner. He sleeps over the garage, and that’s a quarter of a mile from the house. High wall around it, and plenty of trees. It was pure luck that he heard the horse in the stable kicking up a row and saw the wrong kind of light in Mrs. Lacey’s window.”

  “Did she have any family?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose so. I think she’s lived here all her life. I’ll look into it. I’ll—I’ll take care of everything of course. . . . I had a hell of a time with old Joe.”

  “I’d forgotten him,” Mark admitted. “He was in a bad way when he heard that alarm, but your wife took over. She told me where to find the light switch too. She”—he was going to say she was sure even then that somebody was dead but he stopped in time—“she was very calm,” he finished lamely.

  “She can be, when she wants to. She made Joe take some of her pills, rammed them down his throat, he says. Then Dr. Cummings came along and gave him a hypo for good measure. He tried to bite Cummings. But he’ll be quiet now for about fifteen hours.”

  “How did it happen?” Mark finally asked. “Do you know?”

  “I can guess.” Morey looked worn. “The insurance people will be along before breakfast, if I know them. Whatever they say is all right with me. But the real culprit, if you want to know, is Davenport.”

  Mark stared. “Davenport? But I thought he was in Europe? I don’t get you.”

  “Nothing to get. I’m talking through my hat. . . . Well, I’m off to bed. You can sit up all night if you want to, but I’ve got to be as fresh as a daisy in the morning. So long.” He tried to make a jaunty exit, but his shoulders sagged.

  Mark felt a tug of pity. Blaming himself, he thought but it wasn’t his fault. Nobody could have done more. But what was that crack about Davenport being the culprit? How could he be if he was in Europe? Crazy. Funny-paper stuff. Davenport crossing the ocean on a friendly bolt of lightning and striking down the faithful cook.

  He tapped his forehead significantly and looked up at Laura Morey’s portrait. “I’ve got smoke in my cerebrum,” he said to that smiling face.

  His jaw dropped when he heard her say: “Mr. East, may I talk to you?”

  She was standing in the doorway, wrapped in a soft, dark crèpe. He got to his feet somehow, and bowed, painfully conscious of his bedraggled clothing and sooty face. He tried to repair the latter with a soggy handkerchief; at the same time he watched her, warily. Only a few hours before she had come to his room with a tragic and astounding piece of news. He wondered what this second visit meant.

  “Sit down, please,” she said, taking the chair next to his. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Mr. Morey has a remarkable streak of old-fashioned gallantry. He tells women exactly what he thinks they should know, and no more. So I came to you because—because I want to know what happened down there to-night.”

  He told her, trying to make it sound as if it had happened years before, to someone nobody had ever heard of. It was hard to do, with that dead white face bending forward and the wide dark eyes looking blindly into his. For one dreadful moment he thought she was sightless; her eyes were like rounds of black velvet pasted on a marble face. Involuntarily he looked up at the portrait, and he saw her do the same. No—she could see as well as he could. He grinned with relief. She smiled in return, but it was no more than a muscular action that revealed her perfect teeth.

  “Dead,” she repeated. “Burned to death. . . . What do you suppose people will say?”

  “People? I hadn’t thought about that angle. I don’t see that it matters, Mrs. Morey.” It wasn’t the kind of question he expected from her.

  “I mean—the doctor. What does he say?”

  “Just what I’ve told you. Dead—of burns. Why? Aren’t you satisfied with that?”

  “Oh, yes—yes! But Mrs. Lacey—it seems so wrong!”

  “It is wrong. But there’s nothing we can do to right it. When you get the official report you’ll see that it couldn’t be helped.”

  “Official?”

  “The insurance people go into these things very thoroughly. They’ll be here in the morning. And the sheriff was here to-night.”

  “Oh. . . . Does the sheriff investigate—fires?”

  “He does when they’re fatal.”

  “I—I hope he wasn’t troublesome. You said yourself that it was unavoidable. Didn’t he see that too?”

  “He saw all there was to see, you can bet on that.” He thought it was time to ask a few questions himself. He spoke casually. “What do you think about it, Mrs. Morey?”

  “But I wasn’t there! You know that. I don’t know—anything. I stayed in my room.”

  “Not all the time. Remember? When you came to my room and spoke to me you were already convinced that someone was dead. Is that why you’re so interested in the official report? . . . Did you know it was Mrs. Lacey?”

  “Know? Mr. East, how could I! How could I!”

  “I don’t know, but that’s what you said. You said you thought someone was dead.”

  “I must have been out of my mind. I was terrified. It was the noise, that dreadful noise. It frightened you too, and Mr. Stoneman. It was enough to wake the dead. That’s it! I must have been telling myself that it was enough to wake the dead, and said it—said it out loud! You see? You misunderstood me. I didn’t know anything, anything, until now.”

  He was sure she was lying and he told himself a kid could do a better job. Perhaps she hadn’t actually known anything, but he thought she suspected something. What? Did she suspect suicide? He started to ask, but stopped when she raised her hand in a childish gesture. He thought she was going to speak and to give her a chance to collect herself he reached for a cigarette. When he turned back, the hand was over her eyes; but he saw, in time, that they were filled with tears.

  Then he remembered the little he knew about her personal history. She was ill, with a strange and tragic illness that sometimes comes to women after childbirth. Morey had told him that much.

  “Forget it,” he said easily. “Of course you didn’t know anything. I was only making conversation and it was lousy. I’m as rattled about the whole business as you are. We’re both tired and we don’t know what we’re talking about, that’s all. But we mustn’t let this get us down. Things like this happen all the time, but you never hear about them. Sure, they happen all the time!” In his eagerness to be gentle, he was babbling. “Sure. Too bad, of course, but what can you do? Now if you want some sound advice you’ll do what I tell you and trot back to bed like a good girl!” He heard himself with horror. Trot! Good girl! He might have been talking to Violet.

  She stood up and smiled at him. It was a better smile this time. “Thank you, Mr. East,” she said. “How long are you—staying here?”

  He looked startled. “How long? Why—I don’t know.”

  She smiled again. “Good night, Mr. East.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SOFT beds and linen sheets had failed to hold Violet and Florrie. The Dresden clock on the guest-room bed table said seven as firmly as its poor relation in the kitchen. So did habit. They washed and dressed silently in the dark because there was no candle; they didn’t use the electric light because never in their lives had they had such a thing in their bedrooms. Downstairs in the stone cubicle it was candles or lamps; at home, too. They crept down the hall, shivering and red-eyed, and made their way to the kitchen.

  Here was plenty of light, a fire in t
he coal range and coffee on the gas stove. Perrin was mopping up with rags and buckets. He had already made a pile of half-burned wood and twisted metal in the yard. Florrie, the reader, looked at this dubiously.

  “You oughtn’t to do that, Mr. Perrin,” she said. “There may be something in that débris that the police want. To sift through, like.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said coldly. “Mr. Wilcox made a thorough examination last night.”

  “Well, the insurance man, then. Mr. Scott. He’s coming this morning. Won’t he have to—to—” She faltered.

  “Get yourself some coffee and go up to the children,” he advised calmly. “I’ll prepare their breakfast and send it up with Violet. Mrs. Morey is not to be disturbed . . .” He softened a little at the sight of her trembling lips. “I’m sorry, Florence. We’re all upset to-day. Just try to be cheerful, and keep the children happy. Will you?”

  Florrie smiled tearfully. After coffee, she left.

  An hour later Mark woke. He took a look at Stoneman deep in a drugged sleep and happily unaware of unlocked doors, dressed and went downstairs. The fire had been a nightmare that stayed with him. He wanted to see if it was better or worse than he remembered. Once in the kitchen, he stopped short.

  Perrin was nowhere to be seen, but Violet was there, struggling with a heavy basket and the yard door.

  “What have you got there?” he asked sharply. “Who’s been cleaning up?”

  “It’s from her—her room,” Violet said timidly. “Mr. Perrin said it was all right. He said we’d got to clean it out sometime.”

  “Put it down,” he said. He prodded among the wet rags and bits of wood. “What is it—do you know?”

  “Her trunk.” She looked at him dumbly, full of grief. “Did I do wrong?”

  He patted her arm. “No, Violet. Just leave those things where they are, that’s all. We mustn’t touch anything, you know. People might think we had something to hide.”

  She gave him a long look, and turned to the stove. “You want coffee, don’t you? Mr. Morey already had his.”

  “Has he been down here?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s gone down the drive a way to meet Mr. Scott. I can get you some eggs if you don’t mind waiting.”

  “No thanks.” He sat at the table and drank coffee. Violet, after much urging, joined him.

  “Did you and Florrie lose much?”

  “No, sir. Hardly nothing. We don’t keep much here except uniforms, going home every week like we do. It’s lucky I was wearing my good silk—” She broke off and frankly cried, hanging her head like a child. “Talking about my silk with her burned to death.” She refused to be comforted. “And us just through saying we could get along without her!”

  He shivered. A cold wind was blowing over his shoulders, coming from behind the screen that stood where the swinging door had been. All the doors out there were gone, the windows too. In spite of the warm fire in the kitchen range he could smell the desolation at his back. He wanted to walk around that screen, past the cellar stairs, across the square stone hall, into those three little rooms, but he couldn’t. He was a secretary, and his boss was asleep upstairs. That’s where he ought to be himself, upstairs. He leaned across the table and touched Violet’s arm.

  “Violet,” he said gently, “did Mrs. Lacey ever say anything to you about—”

  The yard door slammed and Morey came tramping in followed by a fat man with a face like a boy. They were covered with snow.

  “Mr. Scott, Mr. East,” Morey said. “Want to get in on this, East? Mr. Scott is Davenport’s insurance man. He’s going to look things over.”

  They went behind the screen.

  There was nothing left in Mrs. Lacey’s room. Perrin and Violet had done a good job. The walls were black with smoke; water stood on the floor. You could see where the bed had been because the wall was blacker there. In spite of the broken window, clumsily covered with boards, the smell of kerosene was still strong.

  Violet explained that Perrin had wanted the place cleaned up. Scott nodded his head.

  “It’s exactly as I thought,” he said. “I told Davenport this would happen some day.” He turned to Morey “Davenport was a crackpot about this house. He rebuilt, remodelled, and restored—everything but these rooms. Said they were like monastery cells. Refused to wire them. No heat, no light; used candles, lamps, and oil stoves. I told him that if he ever had a fire it would stay within the four walls all right but God help anybody who tried to go in or out before the thing was over. Kicked like a steer about the plumbing in the bath, but he couldn’t get around that. Had to do it—servants wouldn’t stay if he didn’t. Look at this—” He led them to the room the girls used.

  Mark saw an iron bedstead, the bedding soaked; two metal chairs, and a pair of water-logged slippers with run-over heels.

  “His concession to safety,” Scott went on. “It seems to have worked at that. Barring the chance of suffocation—well, never mind that. But the point is, he couldn’t control Mrs. Lacey. She put up curtains, laid down a rug, had fripperies all over the place. Paper fans, a fishnet full of photographs. Funny thing, her own house is charming. She used this room here as a dump for all the trash she couldn’t bear to throw away. Well, you put all that trash in a rectangle of solid stone, the only exit a nail-studded oak door, and then upset a lamp or a stove—! She was like a trussed fowl in an oven. You found her—well, found her in bed, I understand. Went to sleep with the lamp on. Too heavy to help herself. I’ll take care of everything. Nothing to worry about.” He turned to leave.

  “Hey!” he cried, his eyes on Violet. “I almost forgot about you. You and Florence must put in a claim for damages. Water, chemical stains. Where do you keep your clothes. Lockers?”

  Violet nodded.

  “Well, open them up! Give me an estimate. You can figure it roughly, can’t you?”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Morey said quickly.

  Violet fumbled at the locks. Then she turned to face them. “There’s nothing here,” she said. “Only uniforms and—things. We had on our good silks. We—we don’t want damages. Damages don’t—help.”

  Morey turned his head. When they filed out of the room he stood back and let Violet go first.

  Mark went back to his own room and sat at the desk. Stoneman would sleep until late afternoon and until then he had nothing to do. Morey had gone off with Scott.

  Mrs. Lacey’s library book, with the sealed envelope inside it, lay before him. He would return it, he didn’t feel like reading, and that would give him an excuse for calling on those two women. Maybe they could make him laugh. Petty and Pond, wasn’t it? Bessy Petty, who looked like a child’s attempt at paddling a butter ball, and Beulah Pond, who told tall tales and looked like a hatchet. But a nice hatchet, for domestic and benevolent purposes only. He began to grin.

  Halfway down the mountain he had another idea. He would stop and talk to Amos. Amos, who had begun to court Ruthie Lacey again and who had tried to go upstairs with a crowbar.

  When he came in sight of the station the ten-o’clock train for Bear River, persistently trailed by the ten-o’clock bus, was slowly pulling out. He waited a few minutes before going in. He needn’t have worried about the best way to introduce himself or the subject that weighed heavily on his mind; Amos did that for him.

  He turned from the grimy window where he had been watching the departing train, and held out a gnarled hand. “I’m glad you come,” he said. “I’d like to thank you for all you done last night. You worked as good as one of us.” He sat down with his back to the tracks, facing the little lane of houses. “I’m sorry if I gave you any trouble, Mr. East. I lost my head.”

  “Forget it,” Mark said. “I lost mine too. You know,” he added carelessly, “when you came charging in with that crowbar I thought you were after me.”

  “No,” said Amos. “No.”

  Mark took the library book from his pocket. “I just stopped in to rest my legs,” h
e said. “I’m on my way to Miss Pond’s—to return this. . . . Mrs. Lacey asked me to.”

  Amos averted his eyes from the book; his face was grim, but he managed a solemn wink. “You can return it right now. She’s coming down the lane like a bat outa hell and the fat one trailing behind. Quick work, I call it.”

  Mark saw them through the window, leaping over and plunging into drifts as size and figure allowed, veils flying, arms flaying, eyes avidly front.

  “Do you suppose they know I’m here?”

  Amos spat. “Listen. The minute you set foot on this platform old man Bittner told Ella May, Ella May run to the ’phone and told Bessy and Beulah. Bessy and Beulah grabbed some clothes and here they are. . . . I bet they ain’t half buttoned up.”

  They came in like bombazine cyclones.

  “I’m sick,” Beulah declared as she unwound Bessy and began on herself. “We both are. Ella May telephoned us last night, and we tried to get up the mountain like good neighbours, but those wretched volunteers sent us back. Give one of these louts a little authority and he goes crazy. I want to hear everything. You were there of course, Amos? I feel for you. Well, what do we do now? Plan the funeral and put up the house for sale?”

  Amos clumped over to the window and said nothing.

  “We were all so fond of Ruthie Lacey, Ruthie Brown she was,” Bessy mourned gently. “She came here with her parents when she was a little thing. They worked hard and saved. Colonel Davenport is going to feel this too.”

  “Do you know anything that I don’t?” Beulah asked Mark. “Ella May says Scott has come and gone already. What did he say?”

  Mark told her. He began with Morey calling him in the night and ended with Scott’s departure. He mercifully left out Amos and the crowbar. He also left out Laura Morey.

  Beulah handed Bessy a clean handkerchief and mopped her own eyes with another. “I don’t understand it,” she said. “Ruthie was so careful. Country people don’t upset lamps.” She saw the library book and pounced on it. “You haven’t read it so soon, have you?”