Blood upon the Snow

by Hilda Lawrence

  There was another old woman there; Miss Bessy Petty, he was told. A little simple, he decided. He made a great show of introducing himself formally and a second breakfast was pressed upon him.

  Beulah’s open fire winked cosily and her parlour was filled with pleasant sound: Bessy’s giggle, the crackle and sputter of an occasional coal, the rattle of coffee cups. They were her best Canton cups and there had been nearly half a pound of butter on the toasted muffins that were no longer on the best Canton plate. Mark sat in the best chair with a cushion at his back and his feet on the fender.

  “I never heard of such people,” Bessy protested. “Making you walk all the way up from the station in a blizzard in the pitch dark when they’ve got plenty of gas and a sleigh too! Beulah should have telephoned, no matter what.”

  “No,” said Mark. “All my fault. . . . Do you mind if I have a cigarette?”

  “Oh, do,” urged Bessy, “do.”

  “It’s a mercy you saw the glow from my fire,” said Beulah. “You could have perished. That butler with his nose in the air, he never sees anybody. And I can understand how Florrie missed you too. She has so much on her mind, poor girl. But I can’t understand Amos.”

  “Amos?”

  “He’s the stationmaster and the postmaster and the policeman. He always watches passengers, because you never can tell.”

  “Oh, the little fellow with a red cap. He didn’t see me because he had his arm around a girl with a market basket.”

  Bessy broke in eagerly, “We called him up this morning and spoke to him sharply. We thought he’d been lazy and remiss and we told him so. An arm around Florrie is no excuse. If he’d been tending to his business you could have had a ride. It’s no thanks to him you aren’t dead this minute.”

  “I call it fate,” Beulah said soberly. “If I hadn’t had one of my visions I might have gone to bed and you’d never have seen me sitting here.”

  He looked puzzled, so she told him about the dead bird, the dead children, the footprints, and the mausoleum. “You know I’m psychic,” she admitted.

  “I think you are,” he said gravely, “and I thank you. But here I am, alive and kicking, with two charming new friends. You both remind me of my mother.”

  Bessy gave him a radiant smile. “I know you’re pulling our limbs,” she said, “but I like it.”

  Beulah cut in, “That girl with the basket was Florence. Florrie, we call her. She’s a maid up at the Moreys’. It’s really Colonel Davenport’s house, you know. They’re supposed to be friends of his, but I can’t imagine where he picked them up. That old gentleman drinks, it’s written all over him. I can’t help it if you do work for him. And the younger one laughs too much. Mr. Morey. He laughs every time I look at him. Still,” she hesitated, “still I don’t really know anything against them. I’ve tried to find out from Florrie, but she won’t say a word.”

  “Tell me about Florrie,” Mark asked innocently. “She looks nice.”

  “Oh, she is! Florrie’s quite a pet of mine. She reads books. She’s the upstairs maid and she helps with the children too. Bear River girl. Raised on a farm. She says it’s the best job she ever had.”

  “Like me,” Mark said. “It’s the best job I ever had. Florrie and I must get together.”

  Bessy observed that Florrie was pretty, if you cared for the delicate type. Speaking for herself, she preferred Violet, a good, strong, healthy girl.

  “Violet’s the other maid, although you can’t really call her a servant. She doesn’t work out like Florrie. She’s a different type. Her mother’s an invalid and she has lots of little brothers and sisters. She usually takes care of them. She’s only helping out at the Moreys’ because the housekeeper there asked her to, as a favour. The housekeeper is a very superior woman, a member of our church. Violet’s a lovely girl. I taught her.”

  “Violet never reads,” Beulah said. “I don’t think she can. . . . Florrie takes a book every week.”

  Mark looked across the hall to the small book-lined room with its neat shelves and flowering bulbs. “I’ll take a book every week too, if I may. I’m afraid the stuff they have up the mountain is out of my class. My new employer is something of a highbrow.”

  Bessy resurrected the look she used on fourth graders who came unprepared. “You mustn’t say things like that, Mr. East,” she chided. “We all have brains if we only use them. And I’m sure you’re very intelligent or you couldn’t do the work you do. . . . What do you do?”

  “I’m a secretary,” Mark said promptly. “Specializing in archaeology.”

  “Oh. . . . Isn’t that digging up people who’ve been dead a long time?”

  “Dead cities,” rebuked Beulah. “Do you like detective stories, Mr. East? I’ve got a whole wall full.”

  “I love them. They’re so true to life. What’s Peter Wimsey doing now?”

  “Nothing, unfortunately. But there’s a new one about—no, I haven’t got it. Mrs. Lacey took it out last week. A wonderful book, supernatural. You might get it from her when she’s finished.”

  “Mrs. Lacey?” fished Mark. “She’s the woman you mentioned before. Housekeeper?”

  “Yes. A Crestwood woman, widow. And a great reader, too. The Moreys are fortunate to have such a woman, considering they’re only transients.”

  “A very large woman,” murmured Bessy, “if you care for that type. Very large.”

  One word caught Mark’s attention. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Lacey,” he said. “Did you say the Moreys were transient, Miss Pond? I thought they were practically permanent.”

  “They’re renters, that’s all. Renters. When Ruthie Lacey was in last week she said they were all told the family might not stay on after May. They took the house because they wanted a quiet place. But in May the summer crowd begins to come and the whole mountain is a tourist resort. I do a big business then but I don’t like it. There are two hotels about a mile north of the Moreys’ and I don’t know how many fishing camps and clubs. People screaming all over the place.”

  “Men sleep in tents,” added Bessy, “with the flaps up.”

  “Mrs. Morey seems to have brought a lot of her own possessions,” Mark observed. “Some of the stuff I saw didn’t look like a furnished-house decoration.”

  “Truckloads,” Beulah said with relish. “Books, pictures, china—things like that. Ruthie Lacey says she sent some of the Colonel’s things to storage to make room. I’d like to see the place now,” she said wistfully.” It was beautiful when the Colonel lived there, but Ruthie says it’s something to take your breath away now. They even get flowers from New York.”

  “Davenport?” Mark baited his hook again. “Now where have I heard that name before?”

  Bessy had the answer ready. “You read it in the papers. He’s Colonel Davenport, the one who was sent to England on a secret mission. Ruthie Lacey cooked for him for years. But more as a friend, you understand.”

  Mark rose, and stretched happily. With unexpected luck and very little effort, he had learned a few things. There were other questions he wanted to ask, but they would have to wait. He classified Miss Bessy Petty and Miss Beulah Pond as a gabby pair but far from dumb. He’d be able to use them later—if he needed them.

  He struggled into his coat over their protesting wails and held out a hand to each. “Give my love to Amos,” he said, “and call me up if you see any more mausoleums. And thanks for the second breakfast. It’s ruined my lunch.”

  His hostesses twittered and followed him to the door. “I’ll see you both in a day or two,” he added. They watched like benevolent hawks as he turned down the lane.

  Five minutes later when he turned into the driveway opposite the station, he saw an elderly man behind the ticket window in the act of hanging up a telephone receiver. Mark waved an airy salute. He got a baleful glance in return. Amos had evidently just received his love.

  As he neared the top of the winding drive, something whizzed through the bordering pines and neatly removed his hat. He
swung quickly and saw the projectile come to rest on the gravel at his left. It was an old golf ball. As he bent to pick it up three figures came tumbling through the shrubbery on the right, and someone called his name. He stood still and waited.

  Two of them were children and the other was a tall, slender girl with pale features; obviously the delicate type, and therefore Florrie. She held each child firmly by the hand while dealing out reprimands in no uncertain terms. The children were unimpressed. When they came up to him, she spoke.

  “It’s Mr. East, isn’t it? The gentleman who’s staying with Mr. Stoneman? I’m awfully sorry, sir; I hope she didn’t hurt you.”

  “Which one?” Mark asked, looking from the toddler Ivy to the self-contained Anne.

  “Anne, of course. She’s always throwing things. Where she got that golf ball I don’t know, but she’s not allowed to play with them and she knows it. She might have put your eye out! Say you’re sorry, Anne!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Anne.

  “She knows I can’t tell her mother because it’ll only make the poor woman more nervous. Don’t give that ball back to her, sir! She’s no right to have it. Where’d you get it, anyhow, you bad girl? Did you take it out of your father’s box?”

  “I found it,” said Anne, smiling up at Mark. “I wouldn’t really have put your eye out. I only aimed at your hat.”

  Florrie shrugged hopelessly. “Well, you’ve said you’re sorry, and I guess I can’t expect more. We might as well get along.” To Mark, “I didn’t know she had it, sir, or I’d have taken it away.” She shook and pressed them into awkward curtsies and herded them up the drive and out of sight.

  Mark followed slowly, fingering the golf ball. That was a good shot for a little girl who was only aiming at a hat. He hoped he wouldn’t be around when she tried for an eye. He was whistling softly when Perrin let him into the house.

  He gave up his hat and coat and followed the man down the hall to the library. Doors which had been closed earlier in the day now stood open, and from long habit he checked the rooms as he passed. The library, he knew, was on his right, with a wide French window opening on to the front terrace and a small card-room in the rear. The first door on the left showed him a formal little salon, full of gilt chairs and rose hangings; he saw a piano, and off in one corner a covered harp. The pink, oval rug was slightly faded and wreathed like a valentine. Aubusson, he thought, old and real. The dining room came next. Its double doors were almost opposite those of the library; he glimpsed the end of a sideboard covered with silver, and some coloured hunting prints. Perrin deftly turned him in at his destination.

  Stoneman had left his chair by the fire and was standing at a cabinet, drinking sherry with the handsomest man Mark had ever seen. This must be Morey, he thought, and if so, what is the matter with Mrs. Morey? His yellow hair was thick and smooth; his blue eyes were warm and friendly. He ought, Mark decided, to wear sky blue trimmed with silver, ride a white horse, and sing songs about Vienna to the flower-throwing peasants. Mark declined the sherry Morey offered and they went in to lunch.

  There were only the three of them, attended by Perrin. Laura Morey begged to be excused, her husband said, and the children only came to the table on special occasions. Mark saw the man was doing his best to make the meal a pleasant one. He kept away from personal questions and gently kidded the elderly Stoneman, who looked more ridden than ever.

  “I’m glad you’re here, East,” he said. “I’ve been after Joe for months to do something about those notes of his. These old wanderers don’t know how to behave in retirement. They go all to pieces. Look at him, if you don’t believe me!”

  Stoneman laughed shakily. “Perhaps you’re right, perhaps you’re right,” he agreed. “No doubt Mr. East will regenerate me. Then, with my little book out of the way, I may emerge from this—retirement—and surprise you!” He looked suddenly pleased with himself. He beamed at Morey and batted one eye rapidly in what looked like a nervous spasm but was evidently meant for a wink. Morey gave him a sober wink in return.

  “Don’t let him make this book all facts,” he said to Mark. “Joe’s terrific when he gets fanciful. Get him to tell you some of his adventures among the dead—”

  “Jim!” Stoneman looked hurt. “Jim,” he said to Mark, “is giving you a false impression. I may have been impetuous in my youth, but never, never did I desecrate a tomb—not without government permission, of course. I wish I could say the same for some of my colleagues.”

  “Only kidding, Joe,” soothed Morey. “Mr. East understands that. By the way, we moved your stuff into the room connecting with Joe’s,” he said. “He thinks it’s better that way, but if you don’t like it, say so. . . . It looks nice in there.” A wistful note crept into his voice. “Typewriter, clean paper, jar full of nice sharp pencils—looks like somebody’s going to do something. . . . I don’t have enough to do around here,” he finished lamely.

  Stoneman said nothing. He sat with his eyes downcast. Sulking, Mark thought. But why? Morey evidently thought so too.

  “Sunday!” he said heartily. “And five miles to the nearest church. That’s why we don’t go. But if you feel the need of vespers later on—”

  Stoneman got up from the table with difficulty, waving Perrin aside. “I think I’ll he down,” he said. “Remember, you are free to do as you like, Mr. East. But if you want me, or if you care to rest after your long walk, someone will direct you to your quarters.” He stalked out.

  “Take the coffee into the library, Perrin,” Morey directed. “Come along, East.” Mark followed him across the hall.

  “Did I say something to hurt his feelings?” Mark asked. Morey waited until Perrin had left. “No,” he said. “I probably did. I keep forgetting how sensitive he is about his work.” He poured coffee. “To tell the truth, I don’t think he was ever very much good at it; but he thinks he was a wonder. I guess age colours things up—he’s seventy-five, you know.”

  “I should be so good at seventy-five,” Mark said.

  “Has he”—Morey lowered his voice—“has he said anything to you about his sleepwalking?”

  “No. Does he?”

  “I don’t know. He says he does. That’s why he keeps his door locked, even in the daytime. It’s probably locked now, because he’s going to take his nap. . . . It’s one of the things that’s driving my wife crazy.”

  Mark tried to think of a suitable remark and managed to say, “I’m sorry.”

  Morey gave him a sudden grin. “She’ll be all right soon,” he said confidently. “Women get nervous, and there’s nothing a man can do but sit tight. She wasn’t well when we came here; in fact, we came because of her —she thought the country air would pull her together again. You see”—he spoke soberly—“she hasn’t been herself since Ivy’s birth. That fat little rascal has caused her mother plenty of grief. But I wouldn’t take a million for her!”

  Mark recalled the rolling gait and Jovian air of Ivy and agreed.

  “And on top of Laura’s perfectly natural—nervousness—along comes Joe with his jitters. I asked him up here because I thought it would do him good and Laura too—he’s a great talker, Joe is, when he gets going; but I’m almost sorry, now. He told me this morning that he wasn’t going to take walks any more. Do you think you can shake him out of himself?”

  “I can try,” Mark said dubiously. “He looks to me like a man with—with a serious disorder. He told me he was subject to attacks.”

  “Your guess about the attacks is as good as mine,” grinned Morey. “I’m trying to taper him off. But do what you can about the locked-door business. Sometimes the maids can’t get in his room for two days. They get sore about it and you can’t blame them. And they complain to Laura. . . . But he’ll tell you all about it himself when he locks you in with him! Are you going up now?”

  Mark had risen. “No, I think I’ll go downstairs, if that’s where the kitchen is and you don’t mind. I want a little chat with one Mrs. Lacey.”

  �
��Mind? Hell, no. But why Mrs. Lacey? Violet’s more your style.”

  “This is purely mental. I’m going to borrow a book.” He gave a sound description of his wanderings the night before and his morning reunion with Miss Pond. “Great girls, the Misses Pond and Petty. I think they said they knew you.”

  “They know me because the minute we started to unload our stuff at the station they came flying down the lane like a pair of vultures. Sticking their fingers through the slats of packing cases when they thought I wasn’t looking. Pretending they were looking for an oil stove. I offered the tall thin one a hammer—I probably brandished it—and they beat it. We only bow now. They don’t like me.

  “They love me!” Mark said modestly.

  “They probably know more about you this minute than you know about yourself. Not much those two miss. And old Bittner and his owl-eyed spouse. They, and the Petty-Pond pair, are the only ones here now, not counting the perennial Partridge. Bittner hasn’t any legs but he has a terrible wheel chair, a pair of binoculars, and his Ella May. He navigates from window to window and rakes the countryside. He also counts the passengers on the bus, which he owns, and heaven help the driver who holds out a nickel. I think he beats his wife when he can catch her. Find out for me.”

  Mark laughed and started for the door.

  “Down the hall,” Morey directed, “and through the baize door; then down the stone steps which are fit to break a body’s back, I’m told. If you want anything special to eat, tell Lacey.”

  Mark found the baize door and the steps, and at their foot another door of stout oak that led to the kitchen. A long distance from the dining room, he thought; then he remembered hearing a dumbwaiter in the butler’s pantry. He knocked politely and went in.

  An enormous woman sat by a coal range, shelling peas into a blue bowl. When she saw Mark her mouth dropped open and stayed that way. Over at the sink a strapping brunette of about eighteen was peeling potatoes and singing Pale Hands I Loved. She stared over her shoulder and gave him a wide smile without losing a note. The large woman struggled to rise.