Blood upon the Snow

by Hilda Lawrence

  Wilcox took over the library with an outward appearance of calm. He was awed by the gilt frames on the paintings, and the thick rugs felt like quagmire to feet accustomed to braided rag and straw matting. He stole a look at himself in a mirror and was delighted with his frowning reflection. If this was murder, and it certainly was, he didn’t aim to let folks know it was his first. He barked at Amos; that is to say, he worked up the feeling of a bark in his throat. It wasn’t his fault that he sounded as if he were calling children from play.

  Amos trotted off to round up Violet and Perrin, and Mark went upstairs to tell Morey that he and his wife would be needed shortly.

  Stoneman watched these activities from his chair by the fire, a cynical smile on his face. Then, when the room was emptied, Wilcox began to question him.

  Upstairs, Mark found Morey in the hall outside his wife’s room. He looked as if he’d been having a bad time.

  “She sent me away,” he said. “And now she’s locked the door. I can’t make her see that she’s got to come down. Wilcox won’t understand it.”

  “No, he won’t,” Mark said. “I came up to tell you he’ll be ready for you both shortly.”

  “What am I going to do? I’ve told her she’ll be all right. I’ve even told her what to say but she won’t—she won’t—”

  “You’ve no business telling her what to say. You ought to know that. And you’d better get her out of there before Wilcox gets sore and sends for the state’s attorney. He’ll do that if he thinks he’s getting a run-around.” He raised his voice when he said that.

  “My God. . . . East—look here. You try. You offered to before. Give me a break and take this over, will you?”

  “Go on down to the dining room and wait,” Mark said briefly.

  He watched until Morey was out of sight and then he rapped softly. “Mrs. Morey? This is Mark East. I don’t want to come in. I only want to speak to you a minute, out here. I’m alone, and I won’t ask you to do anything that will hurt you.”

  He waited. The door opened and she faced him calmly. There wasn’t a sign of grief on her face. It was as beautiful and empty as a Florentine marble. He felt cheated and a little angry. Maybe she’d been screaming for a new bracelet.

  She closed the door behind her.

  “Yes, Mr. East? If you’ve come about Florrie, I’ve already been told.”

  He couldn’t believe she was the same woman who had run frantically through the snow because she thought her child was cold. But she was. And now when another woman’s child—a girl who had performed a hundred intimate services in her behalf—was cold in death, she had taken time to rouge her mouth. She leaned against the panelled door, half smiling, as if he had brought her flowers.

  Suddenly he knew she was more powerful than he was, but he didn’t know where the power lay.

  “I’m sorry,” he said coolly. “I thought perhaps I could help you. You probably don’t need help, but just the same I’m going to tell you what I came up to say. You’ve got to see Wilcox.”

  “I intend to. I decided that a few minutes before you knocked on my door. Mr. Morey—finally convinced me.”

  “If that’s the case, I’ll go. Sorry I intruded.”

  “Wait,” she said. He turned back. Her face had altered in that brief moment. The alabaster skin was grey. “Do you know exactly what happened to Florrie?”

  “That’s the same question you asked me once before. . . . I know as much as you do,” he said carefully.

  “He said she was dead. There can’t be a mistake about that?”

  “No. She’s quite dead. I saw her. There’s no mistake. She’s as dead as—Mrs. Lacey.”

  She closed her eyes at that and leaned more heavily against the door.

  He watched her without emotion. It was a good act, but he’d seen others do it better. They did that when they were stalling for time. He waited for her to give him a lead, but she didn’t speak or move.

  “Did you have a premonition of Florrie’s death too?” he asked. “No? Too bad. We might have been able to do something. Ring the alarm, maybe; get the farmers out of bed again. We might even have found her in time.”

  He saw two tears roll slowly down from under her closed eyelids. . . . The old compunction hit him again. Pity began to soften him, and he fought it off.

  “Well,” he said lamely, “you can’t blame me for being sore. I’m all mixed up. I don’t understand any of this business. I don’t understand anything in this house. You can have me fired if you like, but—I don’t understand you either. They tell me you’re ill. I’m sorry. I heard you screaming a while ago and I thought it was, well, hysterics. About Florrie. I was prepared to be as nice as I knew how. But when you came to the door you were as cool as—ice. Not a single tear or sign of one. Until now. Now you’re crying. Why?”

  “I’m crying about Florrie.” She lifted her hands to her eyes, both of them together.

  He’d thought all along that she was holding a handkerchief. Now he saw that he was wrong. The handkerchief was tied around her hands, both of them. They were tied together.

  She saw his eyes narrow.

  “I bite my nails,” she said quietly. “When I’m—thinking—I bite my nails. That’s why I tied them. That’s true.” She held her hands out like a child. “You can see for yourself. Anne does it too. I’m trying to set her a good example.”

  He’d meant to notice those hands. He did now. The finger tips were raw and bleeding. He didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say.

  “I did scream,” she said. “I’m sorry you heard. But Florrie was—too much.”

  “Forget it,” he said, and remembered he’d said it to her before. “I mean, don’t worry. Everything will be—fine. Wilcox won’t bother you. Just—just come down when he sends for you.” He left her standing there, leaning heavily against the door.

  What had he got out of that? Nothing. She was obviously ill. He’d known that before. She had strong hands, strong enough to choke the life out of a frail girl. But had she done it? He didn’t think so. That grief looked genuine.

  Halfway down the stairs he wondered if she stood against the door because she was afraid of falling. He told himself he was crazy.

  When he re-entered the dining room Morey was there, with Violet and Perrin.

  “Mrs. Morey will come when she’s wanted,” he said.

  “Can’t you tell them to go easy on her?” Morey asked.

  “Tell them yourself,” Mark advised. “I’m a stranger here, therefore a suspect.”

  Morey turned to Violet. “Can you pull yourself together long enough to get us some very hot coffee? I’m sunk, and if I take a drink they’ll smell my breath and say I’m drowning my conscience.”

  Violet went off at a creeping pace, with several backward looks.

  Morey watched her departure with a wan smile. “I’m waiting for her to remember that the ribbon on her pink cross said we will meet again. Then we’ll be treated to some plain and fancy yowling.”

  “Where are the children?” Mark asked.

  “Perrin parked them in the kitchen with one of Wilcox’s men. He cuts things out of paper and they love it.”

  After a few minutes Stoneman came across the hall and joined them. “They’re not at all bad,” he said. “Extremely simple, in fact.”

  Amos stood in the doorway behind him, beckoning. He didn’t like being called simple and showed it. “You next, Mr. Morey,” he said with dignity.

  Violet came in with a percolator. Morey took a cup and carried it away with him. Violet looked so forlorn that Mark stood beside her with his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m Sherlock Holmes.” They drank their coffee in silence.

  Morey came out of the library and went directly upstairs. Perrin went in next; then Violet. None of them stayed longer than three minutes.

  Then Laura Morey came slowly down the stairs alone and entered the library. Mark had a brief glimpse of her white face.

 
“Saving me for the last,” Mark said to Violet. She hadn’t said a word since returning from her interview and now she nodded dumbly.

  “Go get the children, Violet,” Perrin said. “Take them back to the nursery. If they want to be noisy, don’t stop them. And no tears, please?”

  She ducked out of the room. Morey came back and leaned against the door, watching the hall. When his wife came out of the library he took her arm and led her away. Then Amos beckoned to Mark.

  He found Wilcox sitting behind a small table with a box of Morey’s best cigars in front of him. He wasn’t smoking. He smiled at Mark and fingered a cheap note-book.

  “I won’t keep you long,” he said. “Just want to check your opinion of yourself with what the others say about you. Partridge seems to think you’re all right, but he’s been wrong before.”

  “But only at election time,” said Amos. He and Wilcox exchanged wintry smiles.

  “You’re a secretary to Mr. Stoneman and you’ve been here since Sunday night.” Wilcox didn’t refer to his book for that. “Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me something.” Wilcox leaned forward confidentially. “How did you get off that train without Amos seeing you?”

  “I was riding the rods and I rolled off,” Mark said.

  “None of my business, is it? Well, maybe not. Now, Mr. East, everybody here tells the same story. Last night they all went to bed early and read themselves to sleep. That’s a nice, safe way to spend your time while a young girl is being murdered. I guess you were so deep in your book that you didn’t hear the front door open and shut.”

  “I couldn’t hear that from my room, anyway. Besides, I was asleep before ten-thirty and Florrie was still in her room then, according to Violet.”

  “I see you’ve been checking on the time too. I wonder if you know anything about a fuss over a wastebasket?”

  “Not a thing. That was a domestic fracas and out of my line.”

  “Now, Mr. East, this next question sounds kind of foolish, but I’ve got to ask it. It’s what you might call routine. Do you know of any person who harboured a grudge against this girl or who would benefit in any way from her death?”

  “No. She was a nice kid.” Mark felt, rather than saw, Amos give Wilcox a long look. The next question told him why.

  Wilcox coughed gently. “I can’t help wondering,” he said, “if you think there’s anything funny in two violent deaths in four days.”

  “Why should I think it’s funny? Your own office listed Mrs. Lacey’s death as accidental.”

  “Maybe I didn’t put that right; we’ll try it this way. Take a group of people living peacefully together and then add a stranger. Result, two ladies die very sudden, one by fire and one by strangling. If you were me, wouldn’t you wonder about that?”

  “I certainly would. But I have a correction. They didn’t live peacefully. Also I didn’t burn or strangle anybody. What are you getting at, Mr. Wilcox?”

  “Nothing.” Wilcox looked uncomfortable. “I had to ask that. . . . Mr. East, did you tell Mr. Stoneman that Florence Simmons was strangled?”

  Simmons. Florence Simmons. He hadn’t even known her last name. That seemed crude and shocking now. He didn’t know Violet’s either. Simmons. Suddenly he jumped. “What did you say?” He stared at Wilcox. “What did you say about Stoneman?”

  Wilcox repeated the question.

  “I did not!” Mark declared. “And I warned Mr. Morey. We told nobody.”

  “Maybe you didn’t, but how can you be sure of Mr. Morey?”

  “He didn’t have a chance. He and Stoneman passed each other on the stairs when we came in, but Florrie wasn’t mentioned. I told Stone-man she was dead, that’s all. He could have gone upstairs again while I was with Violet, but Morey was with his wife then. In that case, Mrs. Morey would know too.”

  “She didn’t. I tried her out. . . . Stoneman let it slip. That’s why I wanted it kept dark. I was hoping somebody would show he knew more than he ought to.”

  “Did you ask Stoneman how he knew?”

  “Ask him? I threatened him with jail. He says he doesn’t know where he picked it up, and he swore it wasn’t from you or Morey. He couldn’t make up his mind if it was second sight or Perrin.”

  “If he has any sense he’ll stick to the second sight. Perrin wasn’t even in the house when we came back. He didn’t come in until you people arrived and he didn’t see Stoneman until you’d finished with him. He was outside with the kids and he certainly didn’t get it from them.”

  Wilcox closed his little book without having written a word in it. “Well, that’s that. Interesting, isn’t it? You got any ideas?”

  “No.”

  “That lady, now. Mrs. Morey. Is she all there? She talks all right, very quiet and polite, but she looks funny around the eyes.”

  “I don’t know. She’s an invalid.”

  “Hum. That’s all. Don’t leave the neighbourhood. The verdict will be person or persons unknown, but that won’t bother me.”

  “Going to knock the anonymity into a cocked hat?”

  “I’m going to have a try. Nobody’ll sleep around here if I don’t.” Halfway to the door he turned. “Say, if I call you up before long will you meet me some place and have a talk?”

  “Delighted,” Mark said. If Amos hadn’t given him a doleful wink on the way out he would have been worried.

  Morey was waiting for him in the hall. He wore a look of combined surprise and worry. His wife wanted to see Mr. East. Immediately. She had a favour to ask. He shifted from one foot to the other and watched Mark anxiously. “I don’t know what it’s all about but I don’t dare not send you. Agree to anything she says, will you? I think she—likes you.”

  “Are you coming along?” Mark asked.

  “No. She wants to see you alone. I’ll wait for you down here. If she says anything—queer—just take it with a grain of salt, will you?”

  Mark went up the stairs slowly. He didn’t want to talk to her again. He didn’t even want to see her. She was getting under his skin. He took a deep breath before he knocked softly on the door and went in.

  She was sitting by a window in the cold north light. She had changed to a grey dress, and a bowl of white hyacinths stood at her elbow. At that minute she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and she looked dead. The smile she gave him was so perfect that he winced.

  “Sit down, Mr. East,” she said. There were no tears now. There was no handkerchief on her hands, either. She wore diamonds. “I won’t keep you long. You haven’t had a very pleasant time here, have you?”

  He mumbled something. Her wide black eyes were so searching he had to drop his own.

  “Never mind. I don’t expect you to be cordial. Are you self-supporting, Mr. East?”

  “I am,” he managed to answer.

  “I’m afraid these tragedies have spoiled your opportunity for work. I’m sorry and I’ll try to make amends. If we leave here shortly, as I think we will, you will be reimbursed. However, that’s not what I wanted to ask you. We need replacements here. Whether we leave or not, Violet must have assistance at once.”

  Replacements, Mark repeated to himself. As if Lacey and Florrie were two broken cups. “I think so too,” he said stiffly.

  “I’m glad you agree. Obviously we won’t find anyone in Crestwood or Bear River. Anyone in the domestic class. But Perrin, and Violet too, have unwittingly given me an idea. There are two elderly women in the village who—” She broke off suddenly. “Mr. East, you look as if you were reading my mind.”

  “I am, if you’re talking about Miss Petty and Miss Pond.”

  “You’re quite right. I’ve heard about their visit here; Anne and Ivy speak of little else. Miss Petty, I believe, is particularly loved. Mr. East, do you think they can be approached?”

  Mark examined the tips of his shoes before answering. It looked as if somebody had been reading his mind also.

  She talked on. “No housework, only t
he supervision of my little girls. I know they are considered women of position, but I feel—I feel—” A new note crept into her voice and he watched her closely, waiting for the trick.

  “Yes?” he prodded.

  “Do you think they would come as—friends? I need them. I mean—will they come simply as good neighbours? I know they sit up with the dead. Will they watch over my children?”

  He braced himself against an urge to shiver. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Morey,” he said carefully, “I had the same idea myself. I don’t know whether they’ll come or not, but I’d already planned to ask them. Subject to your approval, of course,” he added hastily.

  “Then that’s settled.”

  “Not at all,” he corrected. “These ladies are not young and they don’t need jobs. They’re pretty important people around here. They might—they might just possibly feel insulted.”

  He didn’t believe that for a minute. He knew exactly what Beulah would say. Something slightly profane and thoroughly agreeable, with Bessy squealing and concurring in her wake.

  “But you’ll do what you can?” Her voice pleaded and almost broke. “They’re friends of yours—you can ask them in a way that will be hard to refuse. Please try, Mr. East. As for salary, I’ll pay them both at the regular governess rate. They can give it to charity if they like.”

  “I’ll see.” He stood up. She was twisting her hands in her lap; he tried not to look at the raw finger tips. “Would you like to interview them yourself, providing they agree?”

  “Oh, no. I have no demands to make. I doubt if I shall see them at all. I only ask that they come as quickly as possible. There’ll be no housework—just the children. Can you—how soon will you know?”

  He said he would go at once.

  Then, when she turned in her chair to watch him leave he saw that one pane in the window behind her was cracked. Someone had covered it clumsily with transparent tape. It didn’t seem important, but he told himself he’d better remember it.

  It was beginning to grow dark when he telephoned Beulah. She screamed with relief at the sound of his voice and told him to run all the way. Bessy had moved in with her, bag, baggage, hot-water bottle, and grandmother’s pearls. She was afraid to sleep alone. They didn’t know anything. Nobody knew anything. Not even Ella May. And they’d called up Florrie’s mother but she wouldn’t come to the ’phone. He was to stay for supper. Baked ham, creamed potatoes, hot biscuit, and that pear conserve everybody tried to copy but couldn’t. And he was to run fast, all the way.