Blood upon the Snow

by Hilda Lawrence

  “No,” said Stoneman. “No, Jim. I had nothing to do with this.”

  “But it’s going to hit you where it hurts, Joe,” Morey grinned. “No more trays in your room and you’ll have to make your own bed. Oh, well, look for the silver lining. We’ll have one less mouth to feed!”

  Penny pincher, thought Mark. I never would have guessed it.

  Perrin removed the soup cups and brought in the next course: a pair of ducks with wild rice and the green peas Mrs. Lacey had been shelling into her blue bowl. Morey called for claret and Perrin left the room.

  “Lacey and Perrin didn’t hit it off,” Morey confided, “I think she resented his manners. To tell the truth, I resent them myself; he uses bigger words than I do. . . . We’ve got to think of something to keep Violet and Florrie happy now. If they leave, we’re sunk.”

  “A little cheque is always efficacious,” Stoneman said; “or you might suggest the possibility of a Christmas bonus.”

  “Um-m-m,” said Morey.

  Perrin returned with the claret and a bowl of salad. Morey dismissed him with instructions to serve coffee in the library. “And bring Florrie and Violet in with the coffee,” he added. “I want to talk to them. You might try for Lacey too, but I don’t think you’ll have any luck.”

  They finished dinner quietly. Stoneman ate very little, and Morey was preoccupied with his own thoughts. “I wanted to have the kids down to-night,” he said, apropos of nothing. “But Laura said no.”

  After dinner Mark tried to go to his room; he suspected Florrie and Violet were in for a grilling and he didn’t want to hear it. But Morey called him back. He was trying to finish his coffee quickly when the two girls came to the library door. They looked anxious and ill at ease. Morey started right in, but to Mark’s relief he was surprisingly gentle.

  He gave them a little talk on duty, praised their work, and even had a few kind words for Mrs. Lacey. “I wanted to talk to her,” he said. “I hoped she’d come up here with you, but I suppose she’s busy with her packing.”

  Violet agreed that such was the case. She had an awful lot of packing. A big woman like that needs an awful lot of clothes. It’s the sweating that does it. And she never threw anything away. Kept everything. She had boxes full.

  “Well, I can’t very well go down there and beg her on my knees, can I? It wouldn’t be dignified.”

  Violet was convulsed at this and Mark began to enjoy himself. Only Florrie showed no emotion whatever.

  “I wish you’d tell me where the trouble lies,” Morey begged. “Do you think she’d stay if I offered her more money? You see, you know her much better than I do.”

  Florrie came to life at this. “No, sir,” she said, “it isn’t money. She told me to tell you it was just like she said in her note to Madam. It’s too much for her.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess that finishes it. . . . But what about you girls? Do you want me to get a new cook from New York or do you think you can manage between you? . . . There’ll be a little extra money, of course.”

  Violet glowed. “We can manage,” she insisted stoutly. “Can’t we, Florrie? If you could close off some of the rooms we don’t use it would make things easier-like. Say something, Florrie!” She prodded her friend.

  Miss Beulah would have been proud of her pet’s composure. “Yes, sir,” Florrie said politely. “We’ll do very well. And thank you, sir.”

  Morey leaned back with a sigh. “What are you doing to-night?” He winked.

  Violet met this with a paroxysm. She rolled her eyes upwards and outwards in an effort not to wink back. She strangled happily and leaned on Florrie for support.

  “Nothing, sir,” Florrie said. “We have our evenings on Thursday and will continue to do so unless inconvenient. “But Violet was made of harder stuff.

  “I’m not afraid to tell even if you are,” she declared. “It’s like this, Mr. Morey. We are going to slip out for a little bit. Mrs. Lacey gave us permission. My cousin Edgar has a truck and he and his friend was going to drive over to Crestwood. Only for a little talk, you know. Not more than half an hour. We done it before, with permission, and no harm come of it.”

  “Do you mean to say you’d sit in a truck and talk on a night like this? You’d freeze.”

  “We don’t get cold,” said Violet.

  “Well, I won’t have it,” Morey said. He dug down into a pocket. “Here’s ten dollars. Take Edgar and friend to the second show over in Bear River and get something to eat afterward. But be sure you get Mrs. Lacey’s O.K.”

  They stared at him. “Go on,” he said. “Take it. Have a good time.” He reached out and tucked the bill in Florrie’s apron pocket. Florrie coloured to the roots of her hair and thanked him.

  Mark watched their exit with a broad smile. Violet moved like a rudderless boat, barging into chairs and tables and missing the door by a good yard; and all because she persisted in bowing herself out backward by way of showing an extra degree of respect. A nice kid; no rouge, just health.

  “That’ll keep them happy for a while,” Morey said. “Movies, chicken chow mein, and a box of chocolates. Even beer. My stomach’s turning over.”

  Mark turned to Stoneman. “Don’t you wish you—” he began, and stopped short. At the same instant Morey reached for a bottle and glass and hurried over to the old man. Stoneman had slipped down in his chair, his head resting on his chest. He was breathing heavily.

  “Mr. Stoneman!” Mark rubbed the cold, limp hands.” What is it?”

  “No, no,” he said thickly. “Go away.”

  “Let me—I know what to do.” Morey held the glass to the old man’s lips. “Drink it, Joe. It’ll do you good. I mean it.”

  “He won’t take it,” Mark said. “What happened to him?”

  “God knows,” Morey said. “But you can count on it happening several times a year. Listen, Joe, will you take a sleeping pill if I get it for you? You ought to be in bed. I’ll get you one of Laura’s.”

  At the mention of Laura, Stoneman made a visible effort to collect himself. “I’ll get it myself,” he mumbled. “Mr.—Mr. East—”

  “Yes?” Mark said. “I’m here.”

  “If you’ll lend me your arm—” He dragged himself to his feet. “If you’ll just come with me—and see me through the preliminaries—”

  “Of course. And I’ll stay with you.”

  “No, no! . . . I won’t have you spoil your first real evening with us on my account. You must come back here and talk to Jim.” He still spoke thickly but he was fighting for control. Mark watched his struggle to stand alone, his pathetic attempts to hold himself erect.

  “Come along now,” he said gently. They were halfway to the door when Stoneman turned back.

  “Who—who’ll look after the children now that those girls have gone off?”

  “That’s all right, Joe. Stop worrying. They went to bed at seven o’clock and you know they sleep like bears. And Laura’s in the next room, don’t forget.”

  “What about that sedative?” Mark said to Morey.

  “You heard him say he’d get it himself. . . . Maybe he will. . . . I think I’ll turn in shortly myself.”

  Once out of the room, Stoneman sagged. He seemed to have reached the end of his endurance. Mark put an arm about his shoulders and half led, half dragged him up the stairs. When they reached the little hall that led to their rooms, he stopped.

  “Isn’t Mrs. Morey’s room off this main hall?” he asked. “I mean—what about those pills, or whatever they are?”

  “I think I shall try to manage without them. I can always—always get them later.”

  The house was dim and quiet when Mark took a last look at Stoneman, safe in his bed. The door from the old man’s room into the hall was locked. He’d locked it himself, fumbling with the key and dropping it several times. In spite of pleas and persuasions Mark had refused to do the same to his.

  “I don’t walk in my sleep,” he said.

  “Did—did Jim—?”
r />   “Now, never mind. You go to sleep, or try to. I’ll keep one ear open.”

  “Aren’t you going downstairs again? But that’s so foolish, my boy. These little attacks are nothing, nothing; I’m quite comfortable already. Won’t you go, as a favour to me? I’m sure Jim—”

  “Never mind about Jim. I heard him come up a few minutes ago. Now remember,” he patted the old man’s shrunken shoulder, “if you get the jitters or want anything, shout. I’ll leave the doors to the bathroom open.”

  He expected a frenzied protest, but to his surprise Stoneman turned docilely on his pillow and closed his eyes. “As you wish,” he murmured. “Good night.”

  Mark left the night light burning in the bathroom and undressed in his own room. It was only nine-thirty but it felt like midnight. He raised one window a few inches, recoiled, and closed it hastily. The wind was like a knife. He stood for a moment staring down into the darkness, trying to see the narrow path and three-foot wall that edged the precipice. But it was too black. He couldn’t have seen a face a foot away.

  He put out his light and crawled into bed. After a few seconds he saw the door leading from the bath to Stoneman’s room slowly close and heard the bolt slip into its socket. The old fox, he thought; he meant to do that all the time. He was grinning as he went to sleep.

  Later, when he found himself struggling to wake, he thought he was fighting off a nightmare. But almost too soon he knew he was wrong. The room was in darkness, thick and suffocating. Down by the foot of the bed something was creeping along the floor, dragging at the covers mouthing strange words. It came nearer; he heard its rattling breath and felt it blowing on his face. It was real; it was trying to talk to him. There was no light in the bathroom, no light anywhere.

  He struggled upright and felt for the lamp on his bed table, twisting and turning to get out of reach of those groping fingers. The lamp was dead.

  He was suddenly aware of another sound far off, insistent, measured, warning. The sound of someone beating on iron. His own heart was hammering when he finally got his flashlight on.

  Beside the bed, on the floor, Stoneman was gibbering like an idiot. He was past speech; his head rolled alarmingly and his palsied hand pointed to the door leading into the hall. Mark dragged him to his feet and propped him in a chair. In the light of his flash he saw with relief that there was no blood on his pyjamas. The distant clamour beat its even measure.

  “Mr. Stoneman!” he shouted, terror catching him in the throat. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Again, the finger pointed to the hall door.

  “What’s out there, Mr. Stoneman? What’s happened to the lights? What’s that noise? Try to tell me!” His own voice was shaking.

  The old man turned his rolling head toward the door and stared fixedly. Mark’s flashlight followed. He saw the knob turn and the door swing slowly open. A young woman in trailing white stood there.

  “I think someone is dead,” she said calmly. “Why don’t you go and see?”

  Mark stared, speechless.

  “I’m Laura Morey,” she said. “That is the yard bell ringing. It always means fire, but this time I think it means death too.”

  Stoneman whimpered in his chair.

  “That’s Mr. Stoneman, isn’t it?” She came forward quietly. “You can safely leave him with me. And take your flashlight when you go. You’ll need it, and Mr. Stoneman and I don’t mind waiting in the dark. Do we, Mr. Stoneman?”

  “But what—?”

  “I know no more than you do, Mr. East,” she said slowly, “but I’m sure you will be quite safe. I beg you to hurry. Someone is in difficulties and you may be too late. Go downstairs, and on your way please stop at the coat closet in the main hall. The fuse box is in there. You’ll know what to do.”

  He still stared without moving. She put a cold hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently toward the door.

  Outside, beneath the windows, someone shouted his name. He hesitated, then ran from the room and down the stairs. He could feel that cold hand urging him on. The whole house was in darkness and a faint smell of smoke drifted through the lower hall. In the coat closet he saw that someone had thrown the main switch. He changed that and in a second the night lights all along the wall softly glowed. He had no dressing gown, so he took a coat from its hook and started towards the baize door leading to the kitchen. The smell was stronger now.

  The kitchen was dark and filled with smoke, and around the door that led to the cellar and the servants’ rooms he saw an ominous line of light. He was halfway across the room when someone called his name again.

  “East! Outside! Come outside!” He stumbled forward.

  In the kitchen yard he found Morey in his pyjamas beating an iron ring that hung from a tree. He was dripping with sweat.

  “You can’t do anything back in there,” he gasped. “It’s a furnace. I thought you’d never get here!”

  “Where is it?” Mark shouted above the din. “Cellar?”

  “No. Servants’ rooms. Perrin saw the glare and called me. You can’t see any of it from our end of the house.”

  “Perrin? Where—?”

  “He tried to go in but his clothes caught fire. He’s down the road now, waiting to direct the volunteers—if they ever get here. There’s a sharp curve that some of them may not know about. Here—take a turn at this, will you? I’m done in. We have to keep it up until we’re sure somebody has heard.”

  Mark swung at the ring. “Can’t we do anything? Chemicals?”

  “No chemicals. We tried the garden hose, but the water froze. It won’t spread if we can get enough people to carry buckets. Thank God the walls and floors in that part are all stone. Luckily those kids went to the movies.”

  Mark had raised his arms to strike again; he was only half listening, but the words—“went to the movies”—rang like a gong. The mallet fell soundlessly to the ground. He turned to Morey. His tongue was stiff as he dragged out the question he was afraid to have answered.

  “Mrs. Lacey?” he whispered. Morey stared blankly. then his mouth began to work.

  “My God,” he said, “I’d forgotten her already!” They ran to the kitchen door and wrenched it open. Black smoke rolled out and through it Mark saw again the lines of orange light. Morey slammed the door and leaned against it. They stood side by side in the smoking darkness.

  Mark went forward again, but Morey dragged him back.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he warned. “Perrin tried that and he’s sorry. It doesn’t spread because the place is built like an oven. All we can do is soak these walls. Where’s the light? Damn, I threw the switch because I thought it was safer.”

  Mark found the button. “The switch is all right,” he said. The lights came on.

  He saw Morey clearly for the first time. He was on his knees before a cupboard, fumbling frantically with pails, throwing them on to the kitchen floor.

  “Fill them at the tap,” he ordered. “Keep the walls wet and see what you can do with that door. Why the hell don’t they hurry!”

  “How long,” Mark panted, “how long since Perrin?—”

  “I don’t know—years, minutes.” They worked in unison, filling and emptying like automatons. “I keep thinking there’s something I could have done. But it—it was like a furnace when I got here. . . . Does it look better now?”

  There were shouts in the yard. Perrin came in with two men. His hair was scorched, his face black; a freezing overcoat covered his stained pyjamas.

  “Some of the men brought extinguishers,” he said. “They’re working through the windows from the outside. We’ll try from this end.”

  Mark watched hopelessly as the two volunteers filled their milk pails and went stolidly to work. “Isn’t there a fire apparatus?” he asked Morey.

  “In Bear River, five miles away. They’ll never make it. These fellows are near-by farmers. They know what to do.”

  Perrin stood by the kitchen table, mixing baking soda and water into a bowl. Treatment for burns, Mar
k noted. Perrin was as calm as the farmers. When he drew his next pail of water he spoke to him.

  “I think the worst is over,” he said. “It’s queer, it doesn’t seem to spread. It seems—locked up.”

  Perrin gave a noncommittal nod. All he said was, “Yes, the worst is over.”

  A man came in from the yard; a raw youngster with a red face and red hair. He touched his forehead awkwardly and spoke to Morey.

  “Seems like it’s all in the one room,” he said. “The little one on the end. It’s a funny thing. A fellow boosted me up to the sills and I got a good look. The other room ain’t hardly touched. Seems like that bathroom in betwixt saved it. That and them walls.”

  “Do what you can,” Morey said. The orange light beneath the door was fading. He watched it soberly.

  Mark turned to Perrin in desperation. “Mrs. Lacey was in there,” he said. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “I knew,” Perrin said.

  “Couldn’t you have—I’m sorry, I know you tried, but—” He was too miserable to go on.

  “It wouldn’t have done any good,” Perrin said, and turned away.

  In three short hours it was all over. The doctor and the sheriff had come and gone; and what was left of Mrs. Lacey had gone too.

  Florrie and Violet, after an agonizing return, were sleeping in a guest room. Perrin, his burns treated, was settled on a cot hastily set up in the kitchen. He was not badly hurt. Anne and Ivy had slept through the whole thing, thanks to a soundproof night nursery that had been Colonel Davenport’s study. Even Stoneman was asleep. Of Mrs. Morey, Mark had heard nothing.

  He and Morey sat in the library with a bottle between them, both reluctant to go upstairs. He was thinking of Wilcox, the fatherly—but, he feared, bewildered—sheriff who had taken the two terrified girls in hand and comforted them. They had been sure it was all their fault. If they’d only stayed at home. . . . Wilcox had also handled Amos Partridge, something no one else had been able to do. Amos had worked steadily with the volunteers outside the house and when everything was over had suddenly run amok with a crowbar from the stable. It had taken two men to hold him. He’d burst into the house and tried to go upstairs; nobody knew why until Wilcox explained.