Blood upon the Snow

by Hilda Lawrence

  “My dear boy, it does indeed!” He beamed. “I shall keep you very busy, too! You won’t be able to call your soul your own! And after you’ve met the Moreys you’ll be perfectly happy, I know.”

  Mark’s eyes were moving about the room again. He seemed not to hear.

  “That’s a nice portrait,” he said casually. “I mean the one over the table. Who is it?”

  Stoneman didn’t turn to look; he kept his eyes on Mark’s face.

  “That’s Laura—Mrs. Morey,” he said. “You’ll like her, you’ll like her very much.” He wagged his head as if it were a finger. “And she’ll like you! You’ll be great friends, great friends. You cheer her up and then we’ll all be happy. I fear she finds country life depressing, poor child.”

  “She wasn’t depressed when that picture was painted,” Mark said. “She looks as happy as all get out. A Ducroix, done about three years ago, wasn’t it? I know his style pretty well. Funny place to find a Ducroix, on top of an American mountain.”

  Stoneman blinked.

  “And what’s the story behind the Renoir over the mantel? That’s a new one on me. I thought I could place every Renoir in the country, but I never even saw that in a catalogue. Who owns it? You?”

  “I?” Stoneman looked pleased. “My dear fellow, I wish I did. But all these beautiful things belong to Laura. She paints a little herself and she loves pictures.”

  “It takes more than love to own that one,” Mark sighed. He looked at his watch and compared it with the marble clock. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stoneman’s hands begin to shake again. He decided to cut it short. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Either this was what he wanted or it wasn’t.

  “The bed and breakfast were fine,” he said, “and I loved my little talk on art. My suitcase is only half unpacked and I can get down the mountain in thirty minutes. That’ll put me in Crestwood in time to catch a train or bus for Bear River. And in Bear River I can find a train to take me back to New York, where nobody tries to fool me any more. Do I take it, or not?”

  “But, Mr. East!” The old man’s face was piteous. The blood crept under his parchment skin and stained it to an ugly mottled red. One hand moved unconsciously to his temple, as if he were in pain, and Mark saw for the first time that the skin over one eye was bruised and broken. “Mr. East, I don’t understand! You have already agreed to help me out. I have your letter!”

  “What did you hire me for?” asked Mark.

  “My dear young man—you quite frighten me!” He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his brow before he went on. “You are so emphatic! And all without reason, I assure you.” A little mincing gaiety crept into his voice. “I want a secretary, an ordinary secretary, but capable and wise—if possible. I made that all so clear in the letter I sent you. Didn’t I? You see, I’ve been assembling the notes I made on various digging expeditions—with the idea of adding one small volume to the already rich fund of archaeological lore—and some of them were made in pencil, on wretched scraps of paper. I want them typed, while I can still decipher them myself. Isn’t that—clear?”

  “No,” said Mark. “Are you afraid of being overheard? I know there was someone out in the hall a few minutes ago, but he went away when I launched my lecture on art. Don’t ask me who it was—I didn’t see him. But it’s safe for you to talk now.”

  “Talk?”

  “That’s it. And begin with the reason why a man who wants a private secretary hires a private detective.”

  Stoneman sat up in his chair. The curate look came back to his face, but this time it was the look of a foolish little curate—confronted with a shortage of communion wine, the bishop, and a theory on evaporation.

  “Detective!” he said, in a shocked whisper. “But this is fantastic! I wrote you my requirements in good faith and you agreed to accept. You said you could do the work. I mean, the Wood Agency agreed. Mr. East, you are confusing me again!”

  “I’m the confused character, Mr. Stoneman,” Mark said. “I told you before—I am the Wood Agency. I bought it and kept the name. And everything I said about myself is on the level. I do know two languages, other than English, and I’ve even seen a few Egyptian mummies on their native heath. Now let me ask you a question. Why did you write to me in the first place? How did you find me? Don’t tell me you thought the Wood Agency was an employment bureau?”

  “I must have. I fear that sounds ridiculous, but I must have. Why, of course I did! I remember now! Really, I must order my thoughts! I remember now that I checked through the New York Telephone Book, such a very large book, looking for the number of a friend. And I found you on the same page. My friend is Wood also. That was shortly before I came up here. And I remember thinking, when I saw your name, that I might be wise to make a note of it. To have, you understand, in case I should ever need anyone. Then I did need someone, and I wrote you.” He was out of breath by this time, and a little pathetic. “Do you believe any of that?” he asked simply. “If a man told it to me, I fear I should think him a liar.”

  Mark smiled in spite of himself. “Didn’t it occur to you to investigate the agency first?”

  Stoneman looked humble. “No. I—I’m afraid I’m not very worldly. But I should call it a natural mistake, Mr. East, really I should. If I were you I would print the word ‘Detective’ after my name. Why, you don’t even have it on your stationery! I know—I have your letters right here!” He reached for the upper pocket of his jacket and the fringe of his shawl drew back the cuff. His wrist was bound with adhesive tape. He drew the letters from their envelopes and held them out. “You see,” he said triumphantly. “The Wood Agency, nothing more!”

  “I get my clients from lawyers,” Mark said. “They know who I am.”

  “I see.” Stoneman hesitated. He looked downcast. “Really, I’m ashamed. Here you’ve had this cold, long trip for nothing. . . . Haven’t you? And all because of a foolish old man’s mistake.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “What? Do you mean—?”

  “I mean I haven’t had the trip for nothing. I mean I was interested, that’s all. Also, I was curious to see this country again. I did some hunting in the next county several years ago. . . . You’d like me to stay under any conditions, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, Mr. East! If you would! Your background is so splendid—you are so exactly the type of man I need. If you feel that your other clients—if you have no more pressing affairs—”

  “I haven’t. . . . How long will this business take?”

  “A few weeks only. I’m sure we can finish in a few weeks. Perhaps before Christmas. If you can put up with me that long.” He smiled archly. “I’m afraid I’ve made a very poor first impression—and after all, you know nothing about me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Mark said lightly. “Maybe you didn’t check on me, but I went after you. You’ve taught ancient history at small colleges, been curator at two museums—Indiana and Delaware—and you’ve done some digging on your own, mostly hampered by lack of funds. A few years ago you dropped out of sight.”

  Stoneman looked humble. “I hardly know what to say,” he murmured. “I’m tremendously impressed. But you must put that sordid, prying life behind you now, my boy. This is vacation time; we’ll make it so. You’ll—you’ll stay?”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “I’ll stay.”

  Stoneman had been clutching the letters all the while; now he put them back into his pocket and mopped his face again. He looked as if he might burst into tears.

  “When do we start?” Mark asked easily. “What about this morning?”

  Stoneman gave him a watery smile. “We won’t even consider it,” he said. “You’ve had a trying journey, and on top of that all this absurd confusion. To-day you rest. You do exactly as you like. It’s Sunday, after all! And you must meet the family, too. Laura—did I tell you—Laura is depressed these days, but you’ll soon change all that.”

  “Isn’t there a Mr. Morey?”
Mark asked innocently.

  “Jim? But of course! My boy, I was thinking of a new face, a fresh point of view! Jim is a fine lad—like a son. You—that reminds me of another little thing. A very small thing. I’d—I’d rather Jim didn’t know about my silly mistake.”

  “You mean about me being a detective?”

  “Well—yes. I’m afraid he’d laugh at me. He’s a merciless joker, Jim is. I’d—I’d rather he didn’t know.”

  “I won’t tell him,” Mark said. “Where is everybody, by the way? Except for you and the butler I haven’t seen a soul.”

  “Oh, we’re quite a household! There’s Perrin; he took you to your room last night—I want to speak about that later. And the two children, Anne and Ivy. Anne is eight, I believe, and Ivy is somewhere around two. Delightful children—you’ll love them.”

  “Looks like I’m going to love everybody,” Mark observed.

  “You are, you are!” Stoneman enthused. “Although Anne is a trifle—shall I say ‘womanly’—for such a small girl? Now don’t misunderstand—I like women—but I do think—well, that doesn’t matter. And of course, there’s Jim.”

  “Where are they all now?”

  “Oh, Jim is probably being very tactful, staying in the background while I interview my new secretary. Mind your little promise, now! And Laura hasn’t left her room for several days. A trifle low in spirit. The weather, you know, and the quiet. But—”

  “But my fresh face is going to change all that. I know.”

  “You have a sense of humour,” cried Stoneman. “How delightful! . . . Well, that covers everything. I believe. The children are somewhere in the wood at present. With one of the maids. They usually observe wild life in the morning.”

  “Many servants?” Mark asked casually.

  “Not as many as we should have! This enormous place—and Laura would bring her own things. I mean her linens, silver, rugs, pictures—all quite unnecessary. The house was most adequately furnished, but you know how women are. Insisting on their own sheets. And not a well-trained servant to be had. Except Perrin, of course. All country bumpkins, no manners, treat you as an equal. Democracy, my boy, has failed.”

  “My, my. . . . How many servants?” Mark prodded gently.

  “Perrin, Mrs. Lacey, Violet, and Florence. But why do you want to know?”

  “I don’t want to make the wrong woman happy. What do the maids look like?”

  “Violet is extremely—healthy. Those very red cheeks, you know, and an abundance of—breath. Florence is a quiet child; you’ll hardly notice her. And Mrs. Lacey—now I doubt if you see Mrs. Lacey at all. She cooks, and very well, too, but the poor woman is built like a pyramid and rarely leaves her kitchen. Also, I fear, a trifle stupid. At least I’ve found her so.”

  “Very graphic,” Mark said. “But there’s another thing. You said something about my room—”

  “Of course. But I hadn’t forgotten, my boy. I have the memory of an elephant. Perrin put you in the red room last night. Dreadful room, so massive, and on the wrong side of the house. Now if you don’t object, I want to make a change. I’d like to have you in the room next to mine—we’ll have a bath between us—and we can work there, undisturbed. Do you agree?”

  “Certainly. Shall I move my things now?”

  “That will be done for you. . . . But you must tell me how you would like to spend your day. With books, perhaps? And we have an excellent phonograph.”

  “I think I’ll take a walk. I’d like to see the place by daylight.”

  Stoneman grew agitated. “But the snow! It’s really very treacherous! The paths are steep, and the rocks—you might easily slip and fall!”

  “Is that how you hurt your wrist?” Mark asked.

  The dull red stained the old man’s face again and he fixed his gaze at a point above Mark’s head. “Oh, no,” he said. “That is the result of one of my attacks. I believe I mentioned them—a sort of vertigo. I failed to negotiate the cellar stairs—so upsetting, literally—but I wisely clung to the railing, limiting the casualties to a sprained wrist. You mustn’t give it another thought, dear boy.”

  “What about the bruise over the eye? That looks bad.”

  “This?” Stoneman felt it gently. “How observing you are! I hoped you wouldn’t notice. I don’t want you to think I am the sort of person who can’t take care of himself. But actually, this little bruise is my reason for discouraging your walk. Yesterday I ventured into the air and a stone, a quite small one, detached itself from a boulder and caught me squarely. I—I shall remain indoors until the weather moderates.”

  Cockeyed, Mark said to himself. Cockeyed when he fell downstairs, and he won’t admit it. Cockeyed and a little crazy too. I’m going to have a wonderful time. I’ll give it a couple of days and then I’ll sit right down and write myself a letter. Out loud he said, “Too bad. But I think I’ll risk a walk just the same, Unless you forbid it. You’re my boss, you know.”

  “Oh, no, no, I don’t forbid. I want you to be happy. But mind you’re back for lunch at one o’clock. Will you—go down to Crestwood!”

  “I sort of thought about it. Do you want anything?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing in Crestwood, as you’ll very soon discover. But take good care of yourself, and watch your footing. Very treacherous.”

  Mark rose. “My coat is in that closet under the stairs. I’ll let myself out.” He saw the beads of sweat gather on the old man’s brow. Sweat, and shaking hands. “Sure you don’t want anything?” he insisted.

  “Not a thing, not a thing I’ll just sit here by the fire and wait for your return. I may even take a little nap.” He closed his eyes and leaned back wearily. He looked as if he had instantly fallen asleep.

  Mark left the room quietly, making no sound on the soft thick rugs, and took his hat and coat from the hall closet. When he passed the library door again he glanced in. Stoneman had turned his chair to face the hall and his eyes were wide open.

  He continued down the hall and opened the carved oak door, closing it carefully behind him. Snow struck him cleanly in the face. He started down the drive.

  “Cockeyed and a little crazy,” he said to the leaden sky. “Or scared out of his wits. Which? Maybe all three. Maybe only the latter. And then again, maybe strictly legitimate and aboveboard.”

  He walked briskly, remembering that Miss Pond’s house was the third from the top of the lane.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CRESTWOOD, lying at the foot of Big Bear Mountain and surrounded by a dark forest, is a one-lane town. It starts at the railway station and winds uphill in easy stages until it dwindles off into a mountain path. There are six brick cottages along the lane and another tucked away in a small grove behind the station.

  At the time of this story Amos Partridge, representing the railroad, the United States Mail and the law, lived over his office in what he called a cosy room and Miss Beulah Pond called a rattrap.

  The little house behind the station was the property of Mrs. Ruth Lacey, a widow who acted as housekeeper-cook for Colonel Davenport when he was in residence. She was now performing similar duties for the Colonel’s tenants, the Moreys. The Davenport house was a mountain stronghold and much admired by summer tourists who told each other it was just like Touraine or Scotland. The road from the front door down to the station was nearly a mile long.

  Mr. and Mrs. Bittner shared the first cottage next to the station. Ten years previously he had walked in front of an oncoming train to show his contempt for the schedule and lost both legs. In retaliation he bought a fleet of buses which followed the train wherever it went, enticing passengers, carrying pigs if necessary, and giving free rides to wedding parties and funerals. His slogan, decorating each bus in letters a foot high, was SAME TIME SAME STATION. The railroad never seemed to notice.

  The second cottage, owned by Mr. and Mrs. Cane, was empty. They spent their winters in Florida.

  The third cottage, owned by the Tait twins, sculptors, was also empty. The Ta
its wintered in Bear River, five miles distant, where a younger sister saw to their flannels and kept them well.

  The fourth was Miss Beulah Pond’s. In spite of her five thousand a year, she harboured a lending library in a small room off the front parlour. In the summer, when the mountain hotels were filled with city people, she did a brisk business. In the winter she read the books herself.

  The Caldwell sisters, three of them, lived next to Miss Beulah. They were in Florida with the Canes.

  The last was Miss Bessy Petty’s. Miss Bessy had planned a trip to Florida with the Canes and the Caldwells but was talked out of it by Miss Beulah. She was a retired schoolteacher, and forty years’ association with the fourth grade had left her looking like a fourth grader herself. She was round and sweet, with mild blue eyes; and she believed everything she was told, provided it was told with emphasis.

  Miss Beulah had told her with emphasis that Florida was full of enemy aliens looking for things to steal, and that her grandmother’s pearls would vanish the minute she stepped off the train. Miss Bessy moved the pearls from the rose jar to an old missionary box and changed her plans gratefully. She didn’t really know what she’d do without Beulah. Beulah always knew best. Of course they’d stay home; wasn’t home the sweetest place in the world? And they’d read all the new thrillers, the nice English ones because they don’t have the third degree in England and it seemed more civilized somehow. They stayed home, and Miss Beulah regretted it.

  That was the situation along the lane on the white December morning that followed Mark East’s arrival. A handful of elderly people rose late from their warm beds and set about getting breakfast. Another Sunday, exactly like the hundreds that had gone before.

  Mark, turning out of the drive, looked over at the station. There was smoke coming out of the chimney, but no other sign of life. He walked up the lane, almost impassable now. The snow fell with quiet determination, veiling the neat little houses and their bleak gardens. He turned in at Miss Pond’s gate and was momentarily set back by a welcoming shriek.