Death on the Aisle

by Frances

  “Talking,” the major said. “God knows what about. She’s not leaving him anything.”

  It was a surprising remark. Pam remembered not to look surprised.

  “Not a cent,” the major said. “Saw the will myself. Everything to the family. A quarter each to Ben and Wesley and me and young McClelland gets his father’s share. And charities, of course—things like that. And bequests. Nice penny for you, Pamela.”

  “That will be nice,” Pamela said, sincerely but without thinking. “I mean—well, it will be nice. After all, I’m much younger.”

  “Obviously,” Major Buddie said. “Not blaming you, my dear. Don’t think you’d feed her arsenic to get it, though. Doubt if anybody would.” He paused. “Even Ben,” he added, thoughtfully but with less conviction. “Don’t think anybody tried to kill her,” he said, finally. “Lot of nonsense. Something she imagined.”

  “Well,” Pamela said. There was no use arguing it.

  “Now,” said the major, having attended to the matter of the arsenic. “That’s settled. How about the cats? Siamese, you say?”

  “Partly,” Pam told him. “On their mother’s side. I could bring them down.”

  The major said “nonsense.”

  “Can’t go lugging cats around,” he explained. “Makes them nervous. We’ll go to them. In your room, eh?”

  The cats were in Pam’s room, curled up together on the bed. Pam was worried, but they accepted the major with interest and appreciation. Ruffy turned on her back to be stroked and, as the major bent to reach her, Toughy, displaying glad surprise, leaped to the major’s back. He flattened himself on the major’s shoulders, looping behind the soldierly neck, and began comfortably to chew an oak leaf. Cats liked the major, too, and Pam said as much.

  “That’s what he always does with Jerry,” she said. “Nobody else, though. But he tears clothes.”

  The major said “nonsense” again, but on second thought lifted Toughy down. Toughy chewed the oak leaf to the last but failed to detach it. The major was younger, and almost whimsical, playing with cats. He played with them for several minutes, and said they were fine cats.

  “Siamese doesn’t show much,” he admitted, standing up at length. “However—nice to have cats around a house.” He looked at Pam and shook his head. “The girls prefer dogs,” he said. “Odd, eh?”

  “Well,” Pam said, “it needn’t be one thing or the other. Dogs are all right, too.”

  “Handsome of you,” the major said. He moved toward the door, stopped and faced her.

  “No detecting, now, young lady,” he said. “All nonsense anyway. But don’t you go poking around.” His expression was stern, commanding. “That’s for policemen,” he said. “Authority. If there were anything to detect. But, between us, just her vaporings. Not as young as she was. We’ve got to face it.”

  “I see,” Pam said, intentionally vague. “Maybe you’re right.” There was still no use arguing it. She and the cats followed the major to the door and she was very careful not to let the cats out when he left, and he was careful to help, slipping sideways through the door in a manner which might have left an unfortunate impression with anyone who saw him. But apparently no one did.

  And then, after he had gone on up the stairs, Pam found that she had remaining, of cats, only Ruffy. Toughy had been too much for them. She went to the hall and called softly and from below there came a small, responsive cry. Pam said “Damn” in a tone of resignation and went down after him. She heard him scampering ahead and wondered what dog-lover had started the libel that cats moved softly, in sneaky quiet. Toughy and Ruffy audibly trampled, even on carpets.

  Toughy galloped down the hall and, apparently, into the library. Someone—Sand, presumably—had turned out the lights there, save for one small lamp near the door, since she and Major Alden Buddie had gone upstairs. Toughy waited for her near the light and then, as she approached, decided that it would be amusing to be terrified. He dashed off, tail up and twisted, and scrambled under a sofa which jutted at right angles to the wall near the fireplace. Pam went over, got on hands and knees, and reached. She touched fur with her fingers. The fur receded. Toughy made a small, throaty sound of pleasure and interest. But now there was no reaching him from this side.

  Pam, moving more quietly than a cat, went around the sofa. If she were quick enough she might get him before he retreated again toward the front. She dropped, got a hand on him and heard Judy Buddie say, from near the door.

  “But, Clem, I had to make up something. I had no way of knowing—”

  “All right, darling,” Clementine Buddie said. She had evidently said it before; her voice held amused, affectionate impatience. “Of course you couldn’t know. Although why you settled on Mary Conover, when even Dad knows she’s pure—drip. Not that the poor dear will think about it, I expect.”

  There was a little pause. Pam started to get up before things went further. And then Judy said, in a different tone,

  “Why don’t you give it up, Clem? Give him up? Because, if you are talking about poison—.”

  Clem interrupted. Her voice had changed, too. It was light and amused, still, but the amusement was a thin film over something which was not amusement at all.

  “Hold it, Judy,” she said. “Hold everything, sister. One girl’s poison, another girl’s meat. And I hear enough from—from other people. If I want to see him. I want to see him.”

  “Wherein,” Judy said, rather dryly, “you and he appear to differ. If he did stand you up, as I gather.”

  “All right,” Clem said. Her voice wasn’t amused, any longer. “Skip it, darling. Something came up. He—he called me.”

  “Did he?” Judy’s voice was without particular expression.

  “Of course,” Clem said. She was angry, now. “Don’t get ideas, Judy. He’s—he feels the same way. And nobody had better spoil it.”

  “All I’ve done,” Judy said, “is to try to help. And been made to look like a fool for my trouble.”

  There was a little flurry. Clem was evidently displaying affection. Her voice—she can do a lot with her voice for a girl of eighteen, Pam thought—showed affection.

  “Of course, darling,” Clem said in a rush. “Of course you have. Don’t think it isn’t wonderful of you. It’s—other people.” She paused. “The snake, chiefly,” she said. Clem repeated it, describing the snake. She gets around, Pam thought. There was a little gasp from Judy.

  “Clem!” she said. “Not—him. Not the snake.”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  “I’m afraid he does,” Clem said. “The—the—”

  Words failed her, this time.

  “I’d like to—scotch him,” she said, and now she sounded as if she were almost crying. “I’d like to—I’d hate to tell you what I’d like to do, Judy. Because you know what he’s after.”

  “What he’s always been after,” Judy said. “From the first. But I don’t see what he could do. Or, I mean, how—who would he go to?” Her voice suddenly grew more anxious. “Listen, Clem,” she said. “He doesn’t know anything, really? I mean—there isn’t anything he could know?” And then there was another pause, and the answer—whatever it was—came without words.

  “Oh—Clem!” Judy said. “Darling—how?”

  “Could I?” Clem finished. Her voice was level, and there was a kind of hopelessness in it. “Oh, darling—such a sweet darling. You can’t really imagine, can you? Not really. My little sister!”

  But that wasn’t right, of course. It was really Clem who was the “little” sister; by two years the little sister. There’s only one thing makes a woman feel as Clem feels toward another woman, Pam thought. Older and—pitying. However unhappy, still pitying of those who have not their unhappiness. Poor Clem. And now there was no coming out.

  “An eaves-drip!” Pam told herself, bitterly. “Why do I? I’m really getting to—to snoop around.”

  And it hasn’t anything to do with the arsenic, Pam thought, as she heard the
two girls—who seemingly had merely stepped inside the library for the moment of their talk, and were now going on again toward their rooms at the top of the house—as she heard them, after a moment, move out into the hall and begin to climb the stairs. Obviously, it has nothing to do with the arsenic. It meant that Clem was in trouble of some sort, and of a not obscure sort, and that Judy was her confidante. It meant that somebody called “the snake” was an ingredient in the trouble, but not the main ingredient, and that Clem would like to scotch the snake. But it was absurd to think that Aunt Flora was the snake, particularly since the snake was “he.” And it was Aunt Flora, if anybody, who had been scotched. “Scotch the snake, not kill him.” Which was what had happened to Aunt Flora.

  Pam gathered Toughy up and he tried to crawl to her shoulders, now, and was suppressed after a short tussle.

  “When I’m wearing a suit, darling,” Pam said. “Not when I’m practically bare.”

  And then she went out into the hall and heard a door close at the top of the house, which meant that Clem and Judy were safely in their rooms. She went on. This time she got both cats in at once. She read Jerry’s letter again and then, finding a correspondence block in one of her bags, she sat hunched in bed and answered it. She told him about Aunt Flora and the arsenic, and about the major’s fondness for cats, and something, although not all, about Clem and Judy. And then, with the news supplied, she told him about other things. She had no idea how late it was when she had finished, because she had forgotten to wind her watch. But it felt late.

  She was just falling asleep, smiling over Jerry’s letter and what she had said in answering it, when she heard a door slam. It sounded a good way off, but in that case it must be a heavy door, pulled hard.

  “In the middle of the night!” Pam thought, just as she was falling asleep. “People oughtn’t to.”

  Buy Hanged for a Sheep Now!

  About the Authors

  Frances and Richard Lockridge were some of the most popular names in mystery during the forties and fifties. Having written numerous novels and stories, the husband-and-wife team was most famous for their Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries. What started in 1936 as a series of stories written for the New Yorker turned into twenty-six novels, including adaptions for Broadway, film, television, and radio. The Lockridges continued writing together until Frances’s death in 1963, after which Richard discontinued the Mr. and Mrs. North series and wrote other works until his own death in 1982.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1942 by Frances and Richard Lockridge; copyright © renewed 1970 by Richard Lockridge

  Cover design by Andy Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-3114-1

  This edition published in 2016 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  THE MR. AND MRS. NORTH MYSTERIES

  FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA

  These and more available wherever ebooks are sold

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.

  Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.

  MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.

  FIND OUT MORE AT

  WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  FOLLOW US:

  @emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom

  MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.

  The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.

  58 Warren Street

  info@mysteriousbookshop.com

  (212) 587-1011

  Monday through Saturday

  11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.

  FIND OUT MORE AT:

  www.mysteriousbookshop.com

  FOLLOW US:

  @TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop

  Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.

  Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases

  Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.

  Sign up now at

  www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters

  FIND OUT MORE AT

  WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM

  FOLLOW US:

  @openroadmedia and

  Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia