Blood upon the Snow

by Hilda Lawrence

  Beulah thought; she closed her eyes and clenched her hands and her chin quivered. Mark waited respectfully for the trance to run its course. He was beginning to be anxious, and wondering if perhaps he’d made a mistake, when she gave a little jump.

  “Eureka?” he asked hopefully.

  “Mrs. Morey’s room,” she said. “For the first. Everybody goes there, the children, Violet, Perrin, Mr. Morey and even Stoneman, I suppose. She runs this house from that room. And for the second, there’s a very small sewing room next to it, opening on the day nursery. Just that one door, to the nursery, but one wall is part of her wall, too. The nursery door, leading from the hall, is exactly opposite the sewing-room door. If you left it open you could see whoever went down to her room. And you’d know when to listen, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t suppose you know what her wall looks like?” he asked hopefully. “Or if there’re any pictures or things on the sewing-room side of it?”

  “I don’t know what the bedroom wall looks like now, but Colonel Davenport had a big tapestry there. French and very fine, he said. So I guess she’s left it where it was. The sewing-room wall is full of shelves, to hold materials and such. I saw them myself the other night. You look happy!”

  “I’m tickled to death. It’s so perfect I’m afraid of it. Now all we have to do is clean up a few details. I take it you won’t be shy about listening to things that are none of your business?”

  “In peacetime I’d resent that, but this is war. I’ll listen.”

  “And if that set-up is no good we’ll switch to the kitchen. Now, can you get Mrs. Morey out of her room to-morrow? Only fire and murder have done that so far. And one slight excess of maternity.”

  “Out of her room? I’ll get her out of the house.”

  He put his hands under her elbows and lifted her to her feet. “East and Pond would look good on an office door.”

  “Pond and East. . . . What do I do now?”

  “Go back to the roses and the morning glories. After that, you’re on your own. I’m going to bed. You might encourage Violet to talk all she wants to. And remember, the second door down the hall is mine. Come to call if you feel jittery.”

  He left his door ajar and the sound of voices pursued him to bed. Violet didn’t need encouragement, only an audience.

  Nothing happened during the night; at least nothing that called for hands on his shoulder and frightened whisperings. He slept soundly. Even Stoneman, fumbling with his locks and bolts and falling over furniture, failed to rouse him. He was up at eight and having breakfast at eight-thirty, with Bessy and Beulah sitting across the table. Perrin, scrambling eggs at the sideboard, told him that Morey had finished but Stoneman had not come down. Should he call Mr. Stoneman?

  Mark said no, he’d be along presently. This was one time he wasn’t worried. He’d left Stoneman engaging and retreating from a cold shower where he was slowly and noisily winning a battle over last night’s Scotch.

  “We’ve seen the children and given them their breakfast,” Bessy said happily. “After a bit, we’re all going for a nice walk in the snow, Beulah says. Mrs. Morey, too.”

  “Fine,” said Mark, avoiding Beulah’s eye. “Perrin?” The man hurried over. “Are you going to Bear River this morning?”

  “No, sir. But if there’s anything—”

  “There is. I need carbon paper.” This time he looked squarely at Beulah. “Didn’t you say something about paste and painting books for the nursery?”

  “And crayons,” she answered promptly. “I wouldn’t give the ones they have now to a cat. Why don’t we all drive over?”

  “And Mr. Stoneman, too!” Bessy insisted. “He needs air. He looks frail.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Stoneman. You ask him, Bessy. But I’m afraid Mr. East has work to do. Haven’t you, Mr. East?”

  Quickly and gratefully, Mr. East admitted this was so. But he was willing to help others have a good time. “How soon do you think they could start, Perrin?”

  Perrin was also helpful. “Mr. Morey is taking the two-seater. He has an appointment with Mr. Wilcox, a legal formality. If he doesn’t want me to drive him, I can bring the big car around whenever you like.”

  “Ten o’clock, then,” said Beulah. “I’ll run down to Violet and see if she needs any supplies. And I think I’ll ask her to bake a nice cake, too.” A complicated, engrossing cake, her look said. When she stalked out, followed by Bessy, Mark mentally saluted.

  She had cleared the decks for him like a veteran, but there was still Stoneman to consider. He’d probably refuse, work himself up into a state, and take refuge in another bottle. But to his surprise the old man made no objection.

  He was a little languid after his trial by water, and slightly blue around the mouth, but his manner was gravely cordial. He’d been talking to Miss Petty, he said; a nice, comfortable woman who wasn’t afraid of a good corset. And a little drive would be a change. Morey was going too, he understood, in another car. And Laura. Incredible. Well, well, quite a family outing. He accepted coffee from Perrin, shuddered at the first swallow, and smiled vaguely at nothing. “I feel that this will be a happy, happy day,” he murmured.

  Mark, to his own surprise, grew suddenly angry. “Did you drown Florrie in that Scotch last night?” he snapped.

  Stoneman raised one eyebrow in rebuke. “My dear boy!”

  “A happy, happy day. That girl looked after your comfort, carried your damn trays, pressed your pants; and now when she’s lying on a cold slab you talk about your happy day.”

  “I can’t bring her back, East. I wouldn’t if I could. Life has nothing to give the Florries and they have nothing to give life. You needn’t frown at me; it makes no impression. Actually, what did the future hold for her? Marriage, too many children, too much sickness, too little money. No, Florrie was a pleasant girl, but after a year even her family will be happy without her. In another year the only trace of Florrie in this world will be a small marble marker. And inferior marble, I’m afraid.”

  Mark bit back an urge to ask him how he knew about the strangling. That was Wilcox’s job.

  He watched them all troop out on the terrace at ten o’clock. Anything less like a family outing he had never seen. Except for Beulah, Bessy, and the children, they resembled a group of refugees with only one peck of diamonds between them. Morey scowled in a topcoat from Regent street; Laura Morey was somnambulistic in Russian sable; Stoneman was furtively shivering in four English sweaters under an astrakhan coat of dubious cleanliness and a matching cap with ear muffs.

  They herded themselves into the cars like driven cattle. It was the first time he had seen any one of them conform to a general idea. It made him vaguely uncomfortable. Had Beulah’s acid tongue been able to bring about this miracle? Or was it Bessy, that good woman unafraid of a corset? Or were they all together because they were afraid to be apart? Just then he would have given anything to confide in Wilcox.

  Morey drove off first, by himself, and the big car followed slowly. He watched until it rounded the first turn in the drive, then he went into the house. He checked on Violet, who was beating eggs and humming. He could hardly believe his ears. She told him it was another “Indian Love Lyric,” called “There is no Breeze to Cool the Heat of Love.” It made him feel normal again, so he took a handful of the cookies she offered and went more or less happily about his business, telling her he was not to be disturbed.

  Behind closed doors he went to work with the agility of long practice. The tapestry was where Beulah said it would be and the sewing-room shelves were in a gratifying mess. When he finished, he tested the apparatus with a portable phonograph from the nursery and the strains of “Little Jack Horner” told him what good boys they both were. He swept up the bits of wood and plaster and told himself it was a neat job. Only an expert who knew what to look for could have spotted it. He was through at eleven-thirty and went to his room for the sake of appearances. Stoneman found him there busily pecking at the typewriter when they a
ll came back.

  After lunch the children napped and Beulah sat in the day nursery ostentatiously going over a mending basket. Bessy sat by the fire and nodded. When her gentle snoring filled the room like a distant hive of bees, Beulah walked softly to the hall door and opened it wide. Then she went into the sewing room, and stood the door ajar. Her little eyes snapped, and two bright pink spots burned on her cheeks.

  The house settled down to a quiet afternoon. Mark and Stoneman worked; Stoneman’s voice droned through page after page and Mark’s pencil patiently travelled the lined yellow paper. Laura Morey was in her own room, the door closed as usual. Morey was in the library, adding up columns of figures; Violet was in the kitchen, sprawled over the table with her head on her arms, sleeping like an exhausted child; Perrin had gone back to his old job of cleaning silver in the pantry. The only thing that moved from room to room was the little ghost of Florrie, flitting through everybody’s mind with her mittened hands over her eyes.

  Time passed and darkness fell abruptly, and with it more snow. The orderly clink of silver and china in the pantry told that Perrin was beginning the preliminaries of dinner. Stoneman, in his own room, was hesitating between sack suit and black tie in honour of the ladies. Morey was still in the library, eyeing the liquor cabinet and wondering if someone would join him. Laura Morey was still behind her closed door.

  Beulah hadn’t stirred from her chair in the sewing room, although her legs were full of pins and needles. No sound had come from the room behind the wall. It had been quiet in there for hours. She would wait another ten minutes, no longer. She eased her aching back into a new position and smiled sourly at the chatter that came in from the nursery.

  The occupants of that room had no secrets. She’d heard them wake up, wash their faces, blow bubbles, and argue. She’d even seen them briefly as they passed her partly open door. They hadn’t referred to her once or asked about her. She snorted, but quietly.

  “But truthfully, Miss Bessy,” that was Anne’s voice, “truthfully, do you believe in being rescued by knights in armour?”

  “In a way, in a way. Maybe not in armour, but knights, certainly.”

  “On horseback?”

  “Well—on bicycles. Or on foot. Horses have sort of gone out, except for farming, and I wouldn’t care to be rescued on a horse. An automobile, now, or an airplane, or a nice motorcycle with a sidecar would be lovely.”

  “Yes.” Anne, crouched on the window seat, pressed her face against the glass.

  “But who gets rescued these days?” Bessy answered herself. “Nobody. Ladies can take care of themselves, more’s the pity.”

  Beulah, watching the clock in her retreat, leered.

  “Whatever are you staring at, Anne?” Bessy rocked happily. “You’ll flatten your nose all out of shape and nobody’ll want to dance with you when you’re sixteen. There’s nothing out there but trees and snow. Do you see anybody coming?”

  Ivy took it up. “Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?” she chanted, leaning against Bessy’s knee and looking up into her face.

  “Well, if this isn’t a smart girl! I used to read that story myself when I was little.” Bessy and Ivy beamed at each other.

  “We have it in a book.” Anne spoke over her shoulder. “I read it to her, but she likes to act it out better. It makes her feel important.”

  “Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?” persisted Ivy.

  “We might as well play it,” Anne said maternally. “She’s very s-t-u-b-b-o-r-n. Come here, baby; climb up.” She lifted the little girl into the window seat. “Now wring your hands, Ivy. Remember, this is very sad. We really ought to have the window open, Miss Bessy. I’m supposed to lean out.”

  “And catch your death. No.” Bessy crossed over and stood behind them. She drew the curtains back and raised the shade high. “There, that’s as good as leaning out.” To a watcher in the snow they were a picture framed in light.

  “Go on,” encouraged Bessy. “If you act it prettily I’ll give you two chocolates for dessert.”

  Ivy, kneeling beside Anne, wrung her fat hands and wrinkled her brow.

  “Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?” wailed Ivy.

  “Only a cloud of dust,” said Anne.

  “Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?”

  “Only a flock of sheep.”

  Bessie bent over and kissed each shining head.

  “Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?” Ivy braced herself for the joyful climax.

  “I see—I see—” cried Anne, and stopped.

  Beulah heard the crash of glass and Bessy’s frightened scream. Bessy was crying, “Beulah, Beulah.”

  She got to her feet, but they were weighted with lead. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she tried to shout, but her hoarse old voice cracked in her throat. Something had struck at Bessy, someone was hurting her. Bessy wouldn’t know what to do.

  Another sound rose and fell, the thin and frightened wailing of a child. She staggered to the door.

  Her mind reeled back, unbidden, to a day she had forgotten long ago. She saw a little girl with round blue eyes standing knee-deep in buttercups, weeping because she was lost. Those sobbing breaths returned across that far-off summer field. She flung the door wide open. “Beulah’s coming,” she cried. “It’s all right, Bessy, Beulah’s coming!” And her voice was young again and as staunch as her heart.

  The room was like an ugly jigsaw puzzle with each piece in the wrong place. Anne sat on the floor under the window seat with bright red stains on her white frock. That was because Ivy’s head was in her lap. Ivy was covered with blood.

  Bessy stood with her back against the wall and her hands before her face. A thin red stream trickled through her plump fingers.

  “Help!” shouted Beulah above the sudden sound of slamming doors and running feet.

  Almost at once, before she could gather strength to scream again, the room was full of people. A strange fury took possession of her soul and began to burn. Even while she was dragging the fingers down from Bessy’s face, she carefully counted them all, saw that they all were there. All except Violet.

  “Doctor!” shouted Morey. He held a cocktail shaker in one hand and frantically rang the service bell with the other. “Somebody call Cummings!”

  Before Mark could move Perrin was at his elbow, speaking rapidly. “Will you make that call, Mr. East? Quick! Use the ’phone in Mrs. Morey’s room!”

  Mark ran his eyes over the group. Anyone could put in the call. He wanted to stay where he was, and watch. Already he had noted one disturbing fact.

  Someone plucked at his sleeve and he turned with relief to find Violet. She was breathing hard, as if she had been running. He pushed her to the door. “Call Dr. Cummings and tell him to rush it. Then you come back here to me.” She gave him one horrified look and fled.

  Laura Morey was bending over Ivy, smoothing back the dark curls. Perrin gently drew her hands away. He carried Ivy into the bathroom, calling over his shoulder: “Miss Pond, bring Miss Petty in here.” Then he added, “It’s all right, madam. I know what to do.”

  Mark moved slowly over to the window. Laura Morey was there, sitting where the children had been, turning something over and over in her hands. It was a rock.

  Morey sat in a chair with Anne in his lap, clumsily wiping the blood away with a handkerchief. She wasn’t crying. She looked rigid with fright.

  “Is she all right, Morey?” he asked. He pitied the man for his awkwardness but he himself could have done no better.

  “I hope so, I hope so,” Morey mumbled. “Laura?”

  The woman at the window raised her eyes.

  “Take Anne with you,” he begged. “Take her to your room. I’ll bring Cummings as soon as I can.”

  She looked steadily over his head without replying. Mark followed that look and saw Stoneman.

  They had run down the hall together at the first scream and enter
ed the room at the same time. In the confusion that followed, he’d forgotten the old man. Now, somehow, he didn’t look old.

  “What the hell is this?” Stoneman said in a new voice. He stood with his thin shoulders squared, coatless, the ends of his black bow tie hanging loose. His face was blotched; his eyes were blazing. “What the hell is this?” he repeated. “Are children butchered now?”

  It was Morey who answered. “We haven’t had time to find out,” he said. He set Anne on her feet and gave her a gentle push. “Go with Uncle Joe, honey. Joe, take Anne and Laura back to Laura’s room. I’ve got to see what that fellow’s doing to Ivy.”

  Stoneman led Anne from the room without a word. Laura Morey followed. At the door she stopped, and placed the rock on a small table. She looked straight ahead, but Mark felt that she was looking at him when she did it.

  He went into the bathroom with Morey. Ivy was lying on a bed of thick towels and Perrin was patting the blood away with cotton soaked in water. He had discarded his blue denim apron and rolled up his sleeves. Beulah was swabbing Bessy’s face at the washbasin.

  “Tell Violet to find me some tweezers and boil them at once,” Perrin said to Mark. “I need them for the glass.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” Morey asked harshly.

  “I did this in the last war. The routine hasn’t changed much.” He gave Morey a brief look. “If we leave it until Cummings gets here, it may be bad. Miss Pond, do you find much glass there?”

  “No,” said Beulah. “I don’t think so; it’s mostly this dreadful gash along her cheek. I think it must have been that rock.”

  “Keep on with the warm water and then I’ll look at it.” Perrin straightened up. “I’d like to see Anne too, if I may.”