Blood upon the Snow

by Hilda Lawrence

  Laura Morey was running toward them, hatless and without a coat. Her dull red dress was like a stain on the winter landscape. She must have fallen, for it was caked with snow.

  Morey hurried forward. “Laura! Do you want to kill yourself!” He took her arm, but she wrenched it away and dropped to her knees before Ivy.

  “Are you cold, darling?” she begged. “Tell me, are you all right?”

  Morey looked at Mark and shrugged. “Of course she’s all right,” he said quietly to Laura. “Tell your mother, Ivy. We were just having some fun, weren’t we?”

  Ivy complied. “Fun,” she agreed.

  Laura ignored Mark. He wasn’t even sure she had seen him.

  “You know Mr. East,” Morey prodded her gently. “I think you called him last night when the—excitement started.”

  “Yes.” She turned to Mark with blank eyes. “Of course I know him. Good afternoon, Mr. East.” She gathered Ivy in her arms. “I’m sure it’s too cold. It is too cold, isn’t it?”

  Anne touched her mother’s arm. “I’m here,” she said softly.

  Laura’s hand went out to the child’s head and rested there, as if in apology.

  “I know you are. I forgot. Forgive me. Don’t you want to come in now?”

  Anne hesitated. “Here comes Perrin,” she said. “He’ll stay with us a little while. And he’ll bring us in. We’d like to play, if you’ll promise not to worry. It—isn’t too cold, really.”

  Mark watched Laura’s face. The scene was incredible. She had been frantic a few minutes ago and now she was calm and diffident. She put Ivy down as if she neither wanted nor needed her.

  “Oh, play as long as you like,” she said lightly. “I’m selfish. But do keep in sight of the house, Anne.” She turned to Morey. “Come back with me. You don’t want to stay here, do you? Come back with me. We can—have a nice talk.”

  “In that case I’ll come,” he said gravely. “You go on ahead. I’ll follow with East.”

  She looked at Mark. He was at once reminded of Anne; there was that same look of doubt and restraint, of holding something back. She’s afraid to be alone, he said to himself. Out loud he said, “We’ll both go back with you.”

  She left them without another word, not running this time but walking slowly with her head down. Several times she looked over her shoulder, furtively. When Perrin passed her with a slight bow she stood still and waited until he joined the others.

  Perrin spoke to Morey. “I saw Mrs. Morey leave the house,” he said.

  “Take over,” Morey said briefly.

  Mark and Morey moved off together. Once they looked back to see Perrin retying hoods and brushing off shoulders.

  “That fellow acts like a woman,” Morey complained. “I don’t see how my wife stands him.”

  Mark accepted this as a change of subject. “Any more news about the Lacey business?” he asked.

  “All settled. Funeral the day after to-morrow. I didn’t see her. Nobody will. The undertaker’s going to seal the casket. I tried to arrange things the way I thought Davenport would like them, but her old friends here in Crestwood want to run the thing themselves.”

  “This is the time for old friends,” Mark commented briefly.

  They crossed the terrace and Morey opened the door. “This is kept locked at night, you know. Has anyone given you a key?”

  “No. I hadn’t thought of needing one.”

  “I’ll give you one, anyway. Hey, look!” He picked up a note from the hall table. “Addressed to you. Lady’s writing. Delivered by hand. Maybe I’d better give you a key now!”

  Mark put the note in his pocket. “I’ll go up to Stoneman,” he said. He waited until he was in his room before he opened it. It was from Violet. Amos had telephoned and asked that Mark be informed of an insured package waiting for him at the station. Anytime this evening or to-morrow. She was his, Violet. He knew there was no package because he’d left no address. Amos was being cautious and elaborate about something. He’d find out.

  Stoneman came in from his room, rubbing his hands and beaming.

  “Why, you’ve quite a colour, my boy,” he said heartily. “This is doing you a world of good already.”

  This sudden exhibition of health and high spirits gave Mark a slight feeling of distaste. “You’re looking almost buxom yourself,” he said dryly. “Quite a change from the last twenty-four hours and a complete transformation from last night.”

  “Dear fellow, I’ve been ill for several days. And frankly, I was petrified last night. I thought the world had come to an end and I couldn’t find my teeth.” He laughed soundlessly. “But now I’ve had a good rest. And you, you’ve been pleasantly occupied, I hope?”

  “No. I’ve been worried.”

  Stoneman sobered instantly. “I know,” he said. “It’s a frightful thing. And your feeling does you credit. It shows you have a heart and know how to use your head. But you did all that was possible, all those brave fellows did. It’s over now and you must forget it.”

  “Can you forget it—so soon?”

  “Yes. I have a disciplined mind; nothing is allowed to come between me and my work.”

  “Me and my work are like that too,” Mark said. “That’s why I get upset when a secretarial job comes between me and it. I feel an uncontrollable urge to act like a detective.”

  “Please! I thought we agreed not to mention that—that lapse of mine! Really, Mr. East, you force me to an unwilling conclusion. If you are not happy here perhaps you’d better return to your proper niche. I refer to New York.”

  Stopped again. First by an eight-year-old and now by a septuagenarian. And leaving Crestwood was the last thing he wanted to do. Stoneman was no longer afraid. He was almost gay. Apparently the thing he feared had been removed. Could that have been Mrs. Lacey? . . .

  “I’m sorry,” he said meekly. “I do want the job. I—I need it.”

  “Now, now,” beamed Stoneman, “just forget the whole thing! Of course you’ll stay. And we’ll ignore that other life of yours—such an ugly way to earn one’s bread! But I’ll be fair with you, my boy. If I should be burned to death in my bed you may be as inquisitive as you like!”

  Mark laughed agreeably. “I will be,” he promised. “It’s a little after four, Mr. Stoneman. Do you want to start some work now?”

  “No, no. To-morrow. To-morrow will be excellent.”

  “Then if you don’t mind—” He handed him the note. “It’s my laundry. I asked my landlady to send it on.”

  “Execrable writing. Not even the rudiments of composition. Yes, you may go.”

  Mark left the room slowly, as if he were loath to exchange his present company for a clean shirt; but once round the bend in the drive, he ran.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AMOS was waiting on the platform when Mark came up. “Saw you coming,” he said. “I’ve locked up so we can start right off.”

  “Right off what?”

  Amos hobbled down the steps and turned into a neatly shovelled path that wound off behind the station. “Come along,” he said impatiently. “You knowed there wasn’t any package, didn’t you?”

  “Sure I knew. But what’s this we’re starting? I’m a working man and I’ve got to get back.”

  “I’m a working man myself. There’s a train coming through in four minutes.”

  “Then why—”

  “It don’t stop. Now, listen. I was over at Ruthie’s a little while ago getting out the clothes she put away to be buried in. Told you I had a key. And I knew just where she kept the stuff because she showed me last time she had her neuralgia. Anyway, I didn’t want them two old buzzards rooting in her things.”

  “Quite.”

  “If she willed them anything they’ll get it, legal. But no more. Well—when I was getting out her white stockings I found a little bottle in the bottom of the drawer. It was some pills Cummings gave her to take when the pain kept her awake. Sleeping pills. She only took a couple, I know. Well, sir, that bottle�
��s almost empty now! So—wait. This is Ruthie’s house, here.”

  They’d reached a small white cottage set back from the path in a thicket of bare bushes. “Lilacs,” offered Amos fitting a key into the lock. “There’s prize chickens in them coops back there. Mine now.” He coughed. “Go on in.”

  They went from a tiny entrance hall into a room that was grey in the winter twilight. Amos struck a match and lighted a lamp. Mark caught his breath.

  Someone’s living hands had made a picture out of Ruthie Lacey’s best room. Fresh white curtains ruffled at the windows, red geraniums and potted ivy trailed along the white sills; the old cherrywood gleamed, the brass and irons shone, and the chintz roses on the chair covers bloomed as if it were June.

  “Did it last night when I got back,” Amos said. “Want things nice when folks come to sit up with her.” From a drawer in the fine old highboy he took a medicine bottle, half filled. “See what I mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mark said carefully. “You’d better tell me.”

  “Well, this here clears things up to my mind. I think she carried the rest of these pills up to the big house, in case the pain came back again. Then last night when she was feeling low in spirit she took a couple, to make her sleep. So, being under the influence, as you might say, she couldn’t wake up in time to save herself.” He looked appealingly at Mark.

  “That’s a good theory, Amos.” He saw some of the shadows fall away from the old man’s face. “Yes, it’s a good theory.”

  “You don’t know how much better I feel now, Mr.—Mark. I couldn’t of slept nights for thinking—maybe—it wasn’t natural.”

  “Then you don’t think there was anything behind that anxiety to get to New York? You didn’t like that, you know. And you thought someone listened in on her conversation, too. Remember?” He didn’t mention the crowbar episode.

  “I know. But I changed my mind since I found this bottle. Sure she was upset. She had too much work to do and she didn’t like all the drinking. Maybe one of the men up there said something to her—kind of fresh—and she got scared. Remember you said she was scared and talked about evil? That’s it, sure’s you born. Pinching out of wedlock is evil. Ruthie was very religious.”

  Mark struggled to meet that earnest gaze. “All right so far,” he said. “But what about that listening in? And why did she have to see the police captain—on business?”

  “The listening in was nothing, I figure. I was just imagining things. Somebody wanted to use the ’phone and was waiting for her to get off the line. And the police captain is her only male relation. She wanted to ask him if she should write the Colonel and give him her reasons for leaving. Don’t that all tie up?”

  “Why didn’t she ask you, Amos?”

  “Ashamed to, I guess. Very modest woman. Figured it was more refined to keep such talk in the family.”

  Mark looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run. Uphill, too. But I’m glad you called me. This makes things all right, doesn’t it?”

  “Not all right,” Amos said softly, “but better.” They went out into the little hall, after carefully extinguishing the lamp, and then to the porch. Amos locked the door. “What you going to do about having no package?”

  “I’ll sneak in. Nobody’ll see me.” He held up the bottle. “Do you mind if I keep this awhile?”

  “Not going to take any, are you?” Amos asked anxiously.

  “Not now. I thought I’d just hang on to them—in case. O.K.?”

  Amos nodded gravely. They parted at the station and Mark turned slowly homeward. The snow began again.

  He sifted over all that Amos had said. Amos had the kind of theory a man works out for himself when he is hurt and confused. It took care of everything, the evil, the fear, the policeman. It even explained the crowbar, for Amos had probably been jealous of the urban Stoneman; it might also explain the five-dollar bill so properly destined for the poor box. It was a satisfactory solution, but not for him.

  He might believe it, he thought, if he had been in love with a little girl named Ruthie Brown. But the woman he had known was middle-aged and weighed over two hundred pounds; he had been in her presence for less than half an hour. She was nothing to him and he would never miss her; but because he could remember her frightened face her death was something he could not brush aside with talk of sleeping pills and a surreptitious kiss.

  He let himself in the house with the key Morey had given him and went upstairs quietly. Stoneman’s room was dark and empty. After a few minutes he went down to the library. That too was empty. He stretched out on a sofa and closed his eyes. If Stoneman didn’t give him some work to do to-morrow he’d know the whole thing was a set-up. But a set-up for what? He dozed off. The next thing he knew Violet was shaking him gently. He struggled to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we rung the gong and you didn’t hear. It’s dinner.”

  Perrin watched correctly from the doorway. “Dinner is served,” he said, and moved quietly off.

  “Everybody else down?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but Perrin said to wake you up. Dead to the world, you was. You ought to go to bed right after dinner.”

  “Thanks for the sympathy. Maybe I will. Say”—he took the bottle from his pocket—“did you ever see these before?”

  Violet was horrified. “Now, Mr. East, you’re not going to take any of that stuff! You don’t need it!” She came closer and lowered her voice. “Mrs. Lacey had a bottle just like that. I seen it often. Put her to sleep, she said. It was in her stocking drawer.”

  “Don’t leer at me like that. I haven’t done anything I shouldn’t. These were given to me and the whole thing’s proper, but a secret. A secret. Understand?” She did, as exemplified by crossed fingers and eyes turned to heaven. “Look me up after dinner,” he said hastily as steps sounded in the hall. “I want to ask you something.”

  He left her in a useless and becoming trance and went over to the dining room. Stoneman and Morey joined him at the door.

  The dinner was excellent. Violet, it seemed, could really cook. Morey still looked tired, but Stoneman had retained his new bounce and freshness and gained an appetite as well. Mrs. Morey was dining in her room, as usual, for which Mark was grateful. His three encounters had left him cold. He turned a devout look on Violet’s sole Mornay, bubbling fragrantly in a ring of little potatoes.

  “Did you have a good afternoon, my boy?” asked Stoneman.

  Morey laughed. “What did you hire him for, Joe? He spends all his time running around the village with quaint characters and playing with the kids. He ought to be on my payroll.”

  “So much has happened,” Stoneman sighed. “But,” he wagged a playful finger, “from now on there will be no more interruptions. Tomorrow, or perhaps this evening, we shall begin to do great things. Great things, eh, Mr. East?”

  Perrin approached Morey and spoke quietly. “Two ladies have called, sir, asking to see Violet or Florence.”

  “Two ladies? You mean actually calling at the front door?”

  Perrin produced two cards and handed them over. “Miss Petty and Miss Pond, from the village, sir. They apologize for the hour, but as they were just passing by—” Perrin stopped tactfully.

  “Passing by!” Morey repeated with awe. “Passing by a mountain in a snowstorm so they climb up and drop in. On the level, what do they want?”

  “Mrs. Lacey’s things. They are prepared to examine the personal effects and take charge of those items which might be profaned by prying eyes.” Perrin had it straight from Beulah’s mouth.

  “I think it’s a case of friendly snooping and ganging up on Amos Partridge,” Mark explained. “He has a key to Mrs. Lacey’s house but he won’t let the old girls in. So they’re going to work this end if they can. You know, read her letters, count her handkerchiefs, swipe her perfume if she had any.”

  “But there’s nothing here!” Morey was exasperated. “Not a rag. Perrin and I went through the lot. Take them down to the k
itchen and let them grub through the stuff themselves. . . . No—wait. What’s for dessert?”

  “Chocolate soufflé, sir.”

  “Then the kitchen is out. Take them up to the day nursery and give them some port. They can talk to Florrie and do their grave robbing later. . . . I wouldn’t put it past that Pond woman to open the oven door.”

  Stoneman smiled happily to himself and hummed a little. Morey and Mark said nothing; each was busy with his own thoughts. The meal progressed silently through roast lamb with artichokes, salad, and down to the soufflé. Mark could hardly wait until it was over. The nursery drew him like a magnet.

  Bessy and Beulah drank their port in water goblets filled by themselves. They turned back their skirts and put their wet feet on the nursery fender. They missed nothing, from the bright German prints that made a border around the walls and the white fur rug on the hearth to the adjoining juvenile bath and the firelit bedroom beyond. Bessy ran a plump hand over the woollen nightgear that hung on a chair not too near the blaze.

  “Nice and warm to get into,” she murmured. “And hot water to wash in when they get up.”

  “You mumble like an idiot,” Beulah said agreeably. “What’s the matter now?”

  “I slept in the attic at home,” Bessy explained, “and I really did break the ice on my water pitcher in the mornings. Papa believed in making little folks hardy, though I must say I’ve never found it useful.”

  “You’re enjoying now what he saved on fires then,” reminded her friend. “Florrie? Oh, there you are!”

  Florrie came in from the bedroom and gathered up small garments. Her mouth drooped at the corners even when she smiled.

  “Sit down,” said Beulah. “Have a drink. I won’t tell anybody.”

  “I can’t,” Florrie explained. “Not yet, anyway. Ivy ought to be in bed at seven and here it is eight and I’m not half done. And she gets wild when she stays up. I can’t be in two places at once and I haven’t stopped all day. If it wasn’t for Mr. East—”

  “Troublemaker?” Beulah asked richly, pouring herself another glass.