Читать книгу Murders for Sale - Andre Norton - Страница 6

Chapter 4

Fredericka pounded on the thin door of the prefabricated hut. The sound echoed like hollow drum beats in the silent night.

“Good God!” Peter said opening the door quickly. “No need to wake the dead. Who the devil is it?”

“It’s me, Peter. Oh, Peter, Peter she is dead. Margie must be a witch.”

“Fredericka, it’s you. What are you talking about?” Then, seeing her white face, he grasped her arm and found that she was trembling. “Here, come in and tell me what’s the matter. There can’t really be anything wrong, Fredericka. You’re having a nightmare because we talked too much nonsense.”

“No. No. Peter, I can’t come in. You must come back with me. It’s—it’s Catherine Clay. She’s dead. There—at the bookshop. In my hammock, in my yard.” Fredericka forced herself to say the words slowly and distinctly and, at last, Peter realized their meaning.

“All right, Fredericka, I believe you if I must, but first, before I make a move to come with you, I’m going to give you a bracer.”

He led her into the office and opened a drawer of his desk to take out a small silver flask. Then, from a cupboard, he produced a tumbler and poured out a stiff drink. “Brandy. Do you good. Here, don’t drink it too fast.”

Fredericka choked, looked up and tried to smile, then gulped the rest like an obedient child taking a dose of medicine.

When the brandy had worked its magic and she felt suddenly better, she stared up at Peter whose face looked owl-like in the light from the green-shaded lamp on his desk. “Thanks,” she said, and then: “I’m all right now. Please come. I—I don’t like leaving her alone there.”

“If she’s dead, my dear Fredericka, five minutes can’t make much difference,” he reminded her gently.

“I know, but—”

Afterwards both Peter and Fredericka were to wonder at her urgent desire to return at once to the bookshop. Even then some instinct must have warned her that death had not been natural. Yes, even then—

“But what?” Peter asked sharply.

“Oh, I don’t know. I just feel we ought to be there.”

“All right,” Peter agreed quietly. He took her arm to steady her as they hurried across the campus, over the road, and around the Hartwell house to the hammock.

To Fredericka’s great relief the body of Catherine Clay lay exactly as she had last seen it. She stood back behind Peter so that she could not see the staring eyes.

“I suppose she is dead,” Peter said. He took out a flashlight from his pocket and played it over the still form.

Then he began to mutter to himself, “Yes, the eyes and,” he touched her body lightly, “rigor even. I wonder how long she’s lain here. Poor miserable creature.” He turned suddenly to Fredericka. “We mustn’t touch her. I’ll call Carey and we’ll have to let Mrs. Sutton know at once. Here, you come inside and get busy making us all some coffee.”

They went into the house together and in silence. Peter went straight to the telephone in the office and Fredericka to the kitchen where she began to fill the percolator with the careful precision of a sleep walker.

When the coffee had started to bubble and Peter had come back to the kitchen, they sat down stiffly and smoked in a silence which became so oppressive that Fredericka felt she must speak. In a strained voice, she said: “Could you, I mean, would you mind telling me a little more about her—”

Peter turned to her quickly. “You mean Catherine—of course. I’ve just been thinking about her myself because in an odd way I’m not surprised at her death—I might as well think out loud.”

“Please do.”

“Well, it’s mostly gossip but probably fairly accurate. She was married quite young, stayed married two years, got comfortably divorced and then threw all her own and her acquired wealth into starting one of those marble-fronted beauty parlors, or whatever they are, on Park Avenue, and ran through it all in a very short time.” He paused and then went on slowly, “It has even been said that, as a last desperate resort, she began peddling dope to her customers and picked up the habit herself. This was a great financial help to the business for a short time but, in the end, a dead loss due to the unexpected intervention of the police. Now she’s looking—or was looking—for a rich man and a quiet life.”

“That heavy dark man I saw with her at the inn last Sunday—is he—I mean was he, the one?”

“James Brewster. Yes. He’s the family lawyer, works in Worcester but has an apartment here for his weekends. Rumour has it—or had it—that she wanted him for husband number two and that, though attracted by her snake-like charm, he was still able to resist. He’s supposed to be a great one with the ladies and he’s been a bachelor long enough to know how to resist. Also he has money and she had none, which aggravated the situation…”

“Aren’t the Suttons rich, then?”

“They manage now. But the old man died somewhere around the time of the depression, leaving Mrs. Sutton with a life insurance policy that paid his debts and very little more. But Margaret Sutton had guts enough to turn to and develop this herb farm which is now famous all over the country. She sold herbs in little packets with recipe books and what-have-you. And then, after Philippine came, she branched out with this so-called laboratory.”

“I see. Philippine seems to be her mainstay.”

“She is. And old Mrs. Hartwell works for her as bookkeeper and Margie, as you no doubt know, is very energetic in the lab. While all this hard work went on, Catherine played about like a disappointed film star and her brother Roger hid his battle-scarred face from the light of day.”

“It must have been grim.”

“In a way, yes. People get used to things though. But—considering what has just happened—perhaps I’m wrong—perhaps they don’t.”

He stopped speaking and stood up at the sound of a car in the road. Then he said quietly, “It’s helped to talk. Thanks.” A moment later Thane Carey’s quick steps could be heard on the walk, the screen door banged, and he was there, hovering over them as if in accusation.

“What is it, Mohun?” he asked.

“Margie’s prophesy come true. Catherine Clay dead, and in Fredericka’s hammock. Come with me. You stay here,” he added brusquely, turning to Fredericka. But his words were wasted. She had no desire to do anything else.

The two men disappeared through the back door and Fredericka sat still on the kitchen stool listening to the very ordinary sound of the bubbling percolator. Before Peter and Thane returned another car roared up in the road outside and braked sharply. Fredericka tried to get up and go to the door but could not bring herself to move. Presently she could hear voices, and then Mrs. Sutton, Mrs. Hartwell and James Brewster walked in the front door without ceremony.

The events of that evening were to remain in Fredericka’s memory all the rest of her life, but in odd patches as though a whole series of scenes had been lit with bright lightning flashes and then blotted out with the blackness of deep night.

The two men came in from the garden, looking over-life-sized and awkward in the small house. Mrs. Sutton was helped to a chair in the living room. Fredericka gave them coffee. And through it all could be heard, like an orchestral accompaniment, the thundering imperative demands of James Brewster. He stood with his back to the empty grate holding his coffee cup. Fredericka noticed the heavy dark hairs that covered his large hand and crept like caterpillars down each separate finger. He was like a great disgruntled bear roaring at them all. What did he say? Always the same words, over and over. “We must keep it quiet until”—until when? “Family name must be protected.” In those moments Fredericka found herself hating this blustering animal man and wishing that something—anything—would silence him.

And then at last something did silence him—the voice of authority. Thane Carey said quietly: “I have sent for Doctor Scott and, until he comes and has a look at—at her—we can’t have much of any idea of the cause of death. And while we are waiting, I’d like to ask a few routine questions. Do you feel up to this, Mrs. Sutton?”

Margaret Sutton sat forward in the straight chair she had chosen. “It’s true then,” she said. “Oh, I’ve been so frightened of this—and then this afternoon when she didn’t come I was worried—and I asked James to search for her…”

“Really, Carey, this all seems a little unnecessary. We hardly need these police strong-arm methods. My poor Margaret—”

“I’m sorry, Brewster, but I must, as the man in authority, do what seems to me right. I’m afraid you will have to leave my job to me.”

“I don’t see why you have any job, or indeed why you are here at all. I should think Mohun would have called Dr. Scott at once,” James said heavily.

Thane Carey stared at Brewster until the older man turned away with a gesture of disgust.

“You’re a lawyer,” Carey said at last. “Surely you know that one must take precautions in the case of death so sudden and unexpected as this.”

“Precautions?” Brewster flung the word back at him.

“Very well, if you force me to say it. You know as well as I do that there will be an inquest. The police must have the necessary facts.”

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Sutton said quietly. It was hardly more than a sigh, but Carey turned to her at once: “I am sorry, terribly sorry about this and, as a matter of fact there’s no need for you to stay—I can come and see you tomorrow if necessary…”

“Oh no. It’s quite all right, Thane. I want to be here with her. She was—she was so ill you see. No one, not even I, could help her.”

Fredericka, watching Mrs. Sutton’s face anxiously, thought for a moment that the woman could not stand the strain. Then with a great effort her thin shoulders straightened, but when she turned to look up at Thane, Fredericka could see that her face was lined with age and ravaged with pain and shock.

The chief of police became businesslike and his questions followed rapidly, one after the other, until they were broken off by the arrival of Doctor Scott.

Fredericka told simply and quietly the exact story of her movements from the moment that she left the house at half past two with Peter until the finding of the body less than an hour ago.

Thane seemed most interested in the fact that she had locked all the doors when she left. “Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know exactly. I always do lock my door in New York and it’s habit I guess. Also—” She hesitated and then went on slowly. “Well, so many people seem to come and go here and I thought—well—the shop isn’t mine and it is my responsibility.”

This seemed to satisfy Thane who then turned to Peter. “You saw Fredericka lock up. Didn’t that seem odd to you?”

“I didn’t see her, as a matter of fact. I called from the gate because I saw that she was ready and waiting for me just by the door. She came straight along when I called. But I wouldn’t have thought it odd for a city person with the responsibility of someone else’s house, to lock it when she planned to be away for long.”

Suddenly Thane turned to James Brewster who, after his rebuke, had gone to stand at the window with his back to the room in an attitude of childish pique. “Margaret says that, this afternoon, she asked you to go and see if you could find Catherine. When was that, and did you?”

Brewster whirled around and a look almost of madness came into his handsome heavy features. “I refuse to answer your questions. I am a lawyer and aware of the law even if these fools are not.” He turned back to the window.

“Don’t mind him,” Mrs. Sutton said gently. “Surely you can understand that this blow has fallen heavily on him—“James Brewster started to break in but stopped when he turned and saw her face. She went on slowly: “I’m sure we all want to be as helpful as we can, and I believe that honest direct answers are the very least we can give you, Thane. James came to the bazaar just before the supper. He was looking for Catherine and we agreed that it would be a good idea for him to make a thorough search ’round the farm and the neighbourhood. You see—” she hesitated “—sometimes when she was unhappy she took some kind of drug that helped her and then she was apt to—to wander off. We both knew this, and that is why we were worried.”

At this, James turned around again and glared at Mrs. Sutton. “Really, Margaret, do you want the whole town to know these things? How—how can you?”

“I’m sorry, James. I feel sure that Thane knew this already and it wouldn’t do for us to conceal anything that might be helpful. The sooner it is all dealt with, the sooner it will be over.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sutton. You have been helpful. Very. Now please forgive me if I ask you one more question. Where were, and are, the other members of your household?”

“Roger and Philippine went off early this morning and must have got back while we were at the supper. I didn’t see them and judged they had gone to bed, when I got home. They are usually tired after a day of herb hunting and I didn’t speak to either of them. I heard Margie come in. Wasn’t that about ten, Martha?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. About then, I expect.” Mrs. Hartwell’s voice sounded querulous. Fredericka, who had had several occasions during the week to observe Margie’s “Mom,” thought how much she looked the part. Even now, though obviously agitated, she was also quite unable to disguise her pleasurable excitement. This was, indeed, more than a titbit, for the Village Gossip. Her fat hands moved nervously in her lap and, as she spoke, she thrust her lips forward hungrily.

It was at this point that the doctor’s car drew up outside, and, a moment later, he entered the room quietly. He was a middle-aged man, running to fat, and with an untidy family-doctor look about him.

“Evening, folks.” He nodded round a little absently as he entered. Then he turned to Thane. “You called me. Where—?”

“Outside,” Thane said, and then: “Come—and you, Mohun, if you don’t mind.”

James Brewster turned once more from his study of the darkness outside the window. “Shouldn’t some member of the family go, too?” he asked abruptly.

“No, I think there’s no need,” Dr. Scott said in his soft reassuring doctor’s voice. “Stay here and we’ll come back presently.”

After the men had left, Fredericka couldn’t think of anything to say to Mrs. Sutton or Mrs. Hartwell, and they sat without speaking. Mrs. Sutton seemed unaware of the presence of the others. Mrs. Hartwell fidgeted nervously and Fredericka felt that the doctor’s “presently” had stretched to a very long time when the back screen door banged and the three finally reappeared.

Dr. Scott cleared his throat. Then he looked quickly at Mrs. Sutton and said: “We’ve had to decide on an autopsy, Margaret. I am sorry—terribly, my dear—but, well, there are certain symptoms that make me unable to determine the exact cause of death.”

Mrs. Sutton’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap but she said in a low voice: “Of course, Ted, if that’s what seems necessary; I’m sure you wouldn’t do it otherwise.”

And then one of Thane’s policemen arrived and moved unobtrusively into the garden. The others stood up to go as if by signal and Mrs. Hartwell said unexpectedly: “Shall I stay with you, Fredericka? I’m sure Margaret can spare me and you won’t want to be alone. I’d be glad to.”

“It’s most kind of you, Mrs. Hartwell,” Fredericka said quickly, “but really I’d rather be alone. The policeman’s just outside and, well—”

“I quite understand.” The usual note of petulance and hurt had returned to Mrs. Hartwell’s voice. It would have made a very good story for the next meeting of the Women’s Guild—a night of terror. It was obvious to everyone that Mrs. Hartwell did not understand, but Fredericka was too exhausted to care.

Fredericka walked to the door and, as she stood for a moment on the walk outside, she saw that the sky was lightening along the horizon with the first hint of dawn. A bird had wakened to make his announcement to the sleeping world, and Fredericka was grateful to him for his note of cheerfulness. Peter dropped behind the others.

“Sure you’re all right?” he asked.

“Quite sure. I’m more than ready for bed.”

“Good.” He put a firm hand on her shoulder for a moment and then hurried after the others.

But when Fredericka returned to the empty house and the soiled coffee cups, a weight of depression fell on her. And when, with determination, she turned her back on the untidiness and went upstairs to bed, she could not sleep. She turned the pillow and moved from one side of the bed to the other, but she could not forget the cold body of Catherine Clay lying below in the garden and the wretched policeman keeping his silent vigil. Why hadn’t they taken her away at once?

Finally, Fredericka switched on the light and got up to put on her bath robe. It was much better, she decided to give up the struggle. She went downstairs, collected the dirty cups and made a fresh pot of coffee. When she called the policeman, he came in and took the coffee gratefully but refused to sit down. He went back to his job, taking his steaming cup with him and Fredericka took hers to the office. Then she opened the middle desk drawer, drew out the notes for her projected book and, with her head in her hands, in a proper attitude of concentration, she began to study them intently. The lives of her three industrious “scribbling women” began to shape themselves in her mind and she reached for a block of paper with eagerness born of her sudden creative impulse and the blessed relief it gave her. It was a long time later that she looked at her watch and saw that it was half past five. Outside, the sky was streaked with crimson and the tentative bird song had now become a mighty chorus. She stood up and stretched. Then, after a moment of indecision, she tiptoed to the kitchen and, with the fascination of horror, stared out at the hammock and the dead body of Catherine Clay. Behind it the figure of the policeman paced slowly up and down like a symbol of grief.

Fredericka had worked away her morbid fears and now, having looked at the body, she felt relieved of the weight of mystery. She could sleep at last and the whole day lay ahead. Sunday. Blessed thought. Unless, of course, the police came to perform their macabre duties and go on with their endless questioning. Surely not that, again. She lifted one weary leg after the other and went up the stairs to bed.

In a few hours dawn brightened into day and the sun streamed in across the carpet, but Fredericka slept on.