He felt flattered and paternal when she slipped her hand through his.
“I heard about that,” she said. “Violet told me secretly. Ivy will be furious.”
Chester hadn’t been boasting; the hat was neatly drilled. Mark and Anne regarded it with awe.
“You and Chester ought to join up with a carnival show,” he said. “You both have the eye and the hand.”
She flushed. Then she gave a little cry of dismay. “Ivy will be in a rage. They shot his eyelashes off too.”
“Get out!” Mark scoffed. “By golly I believe you’re right.” The broom-straw lashes were scattered far and wide. “That boy is a devil—I beg your pardon, Miss Morey.”
“Put them back,” she begged, giving him a handful. “I can’t reach. If they aren’t there when Ivy comes to say good-bye she’ll have a tantrum.”
He put them back, one by one, while she patted more snow against the base.
“She simply adores him,” she said fondly.
He worked on silently and after a minute he touched her bent shoulder.
“I’m cold,” he said. “I’m a sissy.”
She laughed up at him. “You!” The snow was falling thick and fast, clinging to her red cheeks.
“Yes. Look at me. I’m shivering. How’s about you and me going back to the house and having a drink? Elevenses. Cocoa for you.”
“Have you finished?” she asked doubtfully.
“Yep. Come along. I’ll race you.” They dashed through the gathering storm and he let her win.
He was drinking a stiff whisky and writing in his notebook when Morey came into the library, followed by Perrin. Perrin carried a large wicker basket which he proceeded to fill with the room’s choicest ornaments.
Morey shook his head dolefully. “Don’t you know you’ll stunt your growth if you drink before sunset? . . . What’s the matter with you? You look green.”
“Chill.” He slipped the book in his pocket. “What are you doing?” Morey was standing on a chair, unhooking the Renoir and his wife’s portrait. “We’re going to crate these down in the cellar. I’ll try not to put my foot through them, but I can’t promise anything. What about that mirror, Perrin?”
“That is ours, sir.”
“You take it. I should invite seven more years like this one.” He climbed down and picked up the paintings. “Looks queer in here without this stuff, doesn’t it?”
It did, Mark noted. The richness was gone; all that remained was a large, comfortable room, a little shabby and faded. It was hard to remember that Laura Morey had ever sat on that sofa or that Stoneman had ever crouched over the fire. The rugs stood out like stained-glass windows.
“They go too,” Morey said. “We’ll take them up to-night.” Perrin was moving toward the door, and Morey followed. “Perrin and Violet are going over to the funeral. I’m going along too. Want to come?”
“Yes. Yes, I want to very much.”
“Meet me here after lunch, then.” He edged himself carefully through the door.
Mark poured himself another drink and opened his notebook. He stared at it for some minutes before he began to write again, rapidly.
Upstairs, Bessy and Beulah staggered about the nursery with their arms full of clothing and their eyes bright with the occupational dementia that attacks all packing women. They dragged heavy trunks into the middle of the floor and dove headlong into dark closets. They got down on their creaking knees before small suitcases, when only two weeks before they had told dear Dr. Wrenn that genuflection was for the very young and converts.
They worked for some time in what for them was silence, like two small girls with new dolls and wardrobes to match, smoothing, folding, buttoning, and unbuttoning. Beulah hummed like a motor that is audible only when it approaches breakdown; Bessy emitted monosyllables at regular intervals.
“Oh,” said Bessy finally, withdrawing her head and shoulders from the depths of an old-fashioned trunk. “Do you know something funny, Beulah? Ivy’s clothes have Saks-Fifth Avenue labels and so do some of Anne’s, but Anne’s old things, like that fur cape, haven’t any labels at all. Ripped out. You can see where.”
“What of it?” Beulah said coolly. “Don’t start romancing.”
“I won’t,” said Bessy. “Look at this, Beulah.” She held up a small nightgown. “Isn’t this the prettiest thing? Imagine wearing it to bed. I’m sure I couldn’t sleep. . . . I wore flannel.”
“Um,” said Beulah.
‘‘Anne’s. It’s French. I can tell. You can’t beat the French on underwear. It’s even got a French laundry mark. You know, that red cotton and the funny little one that they use for a seven. Laundered in France! . . . Well, I’d have those marks on mine too, but you always made me do them in the washbowl.”
Beulah went on grimly folding clothes. Once Violet came in to collect the empty cocoa cups, announce the imminence of lunch, and complain about the food.
“There’s that rabbit pie for lunch, but I’ll have to open cans for dinner unless they’ll eat rabbit again, which they won’t. Everybody’s in such a hurry to get away they don’t order nothing from the store.” She was fighting back tears. “I don’t care for rabbit myself.” She went slowly from one heap of clothing to another, fingering the silk and linen frocks, the small furred jackets, the little bathrobes that were so obviously one hundred per cent. pure wool. She made an inarticulate sound and stalked out.
“Everybody’s so cross to-day,” said Bessy. “Even best friends.”
When the lunch gong rang at one o’clock Beulah began an elaborate detour around the room. “You go on down,” she said to Bessy. “Tell everybody I’ve got a headache. And keep quiet about those labels. They don’t mean a thing. If Violet comes up to feed the children, tell her I’ve locked myself in the sewing room for a little nap. She can save me a leg, if she will. No crust.”
After lunch Mark drove to Bear River with Morey, Perrin, and Violet.
A sober little group of about thirty people gathered about Florrie’s grave, their heads bent to grief and the storm. At the foot of the winding path that led up from the road several hundred more stood quietly. There were no ropes to hold them back, only a streak of delicacy that none of them knew they had. The wind tore at the decent black of Florrie’s mother’s veil and bit into the bare and knotted hands of her stooping father. The tall, thin rector of St. Michael’s couldn’t keep the human misery from his eyes, but his voice never doubted, and though he spoke softly and the words were old they outrode the storm as they had always done.
Mark stood with his arm around Violet. He knew some of those present, and could place most of the others Morey and Perrin, standing erect and hatless. Wilcox. Two of Wilcox’s men. Florrie’s parents, her brother, and an unhappy youth who didn’t seem to know or care that tears ran down his face. A girl with swollen eyes who was certainly a best friend next to Violet. Elderly people who might be uncles and aunts, youngsters who might be cousins. Floyd and Chester in their Sunday clothes. Two old men in capes who looked as if they’d strayed from a third-rate opera company. All weeping softly or staring straight ahead. He drew a deep breath when it was over. There couldn’t be a murderer in that lot. There couldn’t be unless—
Violet murmured something through her tears and he bent to listen.
“I’m going to set out some violets in the spring,” she whispered. “For her to remember me by.”
They moved down the hillside to the road.
“I want to talk to you privately,” Mark said to Wilcox. “At your house. Arrange it, will you?”
Wilcox went ahead and spoke briefly to Morey; then he came back.
“Violet,” he said. “Mr. Morey and Perrin have some shopping to do and they want you with them. I’ll drive Mr. East home in time for dinner.”
She left them with her usual reluctance and they walked on. Suddenly Wilcox stiffened.
“You, Floyd!” he bellowed. “Cut that out!”
Mark jumped. Startled mourners
turned to stare and then smiled faintly. Floyd and Chester were acting up.
A wild reaction had taken them bodily and was heaving them about in the snow. Something, it could have been Perrin’s long black coat and black bowler, had set them off. Whatever it was it made no sense to the horrified Wilcox. To Floyd and Chester, however, it was convulsingly clear. They crawled on their stomachs like Indians in a Western film, they sized the lower branches of one tree and swung to another. They dropped to the ground and pounded each other on the back. Then they did the whole thing over again.
“I gave thirty dollars for that coat,” muttered Wilcox. He delivered a second bellow.
Floyd and Chester looked back with broad grins, took in the situation, and subsided into a decorous walk.
Wilcox led Mark around to the kitchen door, to save the hall runner, he explained. Pansy was probably home by now, and if he knew her she’d have a pot of coffee ready.
The boys scampered in ahead of them and fled up the back stairs. Pansy was indeed home. She still wore her hat, but there was coffee on the stove and a fresh batch of currant buns from Mama’s. She fluttered like a plump bird and ran into the parlour to light the oil stove.
“No, Pansy,” Wilcox said. “Not in there.” He turned to Mark. “I boarded up an old shed off the summer kitchen and made myself a real nice little den. Take the coffee there, Pansy. Mr. East and I want to talk.”
“What a mercy I built the fire in there,” she glowed. She led the way, carrying her tray. “I’m sick because I couldn’t go to that funeral, but Mama held me back.” She wanted to talk about Mama, but her husband gently blocked her way.
“Better take a look at Floyd’s coat,” he advised. “He was swinging on trees like a monkey.” She departed with little cries.
“Now,” he said to Mark, indicating an old Morris chair. “What’s worrying you? You don’t look as happy as you did last night.”
“Did you put those calls through?”
“No trouble at all. Sent the operator out to buy flowers for the funeral and worked the board myself. That Citrus City sheriff sounded right pleased. New fellow. From what he said I gather his biggest job is trailing tourists who help themselves to oranges. He didn’t remember about the accident himself but he promised to get it all straight for me and let me know, as per schedule. Now, Washington was different. I had to be a little firm there.” He stirred his coffee with relish. “Made me feel good to talk back to those fellows, but I managed to convince them. I didn’t give an inch. They’ll do their best and if we don’t get London to-night we’ll get it to-morrow.” He radiated Scotland Yard.
“I want it to-night. I’m afraid of the next twenty-four hours.”
“Huh?” said Wilcox, startled.
“Listen. On the day of Mrs. Lacey’s funeral Morey, or somebody, told me that Mrs. Wilcox was going to look after the Morey children. How come?”
“That’s Pansy’s heart. She’s all heart. When she heard the whole family wanted to go, out of respect, she offered.”
“Will she offer again if the need arises?”
“God Almighty, Mr. East! Not another one!”
“Not if I can help it. And even if it did happen again, I don’t know who it would be. That’s—that’s what I don’t like. . . . No, we may want the kids out of the way on general principles.”
“She’ll take ’em. All you have to do is ask.” He looked worried. “You know something new, don’t you?”
“Yes. Morey thinks Stoneman is alive.”
“Where is he then?”
“Morey thinks he ran away—to New York.”
“In a blizzard? No coat and hat? No luggage? And how did he do it, fly?”
“He could have laid his plans in advance. Hidden his things on the mountain. . . . I’m afraid you don’t believe it.”
“I don’t.”
“Neither do I. . . . Where was Amos to-day?”
“Amos was working at the station. He can’t get a substitute unless he’s sick. And what’s more, he’s my deputy. You can’t accuse him of—these things. He couldn’t do—these things. So help me, I can’t even say the word murder in the same breath with Amos!”
“I’m not accusing him,” Mark said mildly. “I’m only trying to place people. By the way, did I see the Taits at the funeral?”
“You did, and you could have knocked me over with a feather! I never knew that pair to show up at a funeral before. I’d sort of forgot they knew Florrie right well at one time. Seems to me I heard they made a little statue of her when she was a child, a fountain piece or something. Very bare, it was. People talked.”
“I may look them up. I’d like to see it, if they still have it.”
“They’ll have it. They never throw anything away. Look at their clothes. . . . Mr. East, I don’t feel so good about all this. The way you’re talking and the way you look. Are you holding something out on me?”
“I have been, but not any more. I know where Stoneman really is.”
“Alive?”
“No.”
“Can we identify—the body?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who did it or was it an accident?”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
“I’m going to get my car. You can tell me as we drive along.”
Mark followed him to the back yard and waited outside the garage. Floyd was there, indulging in hopeless argument. His mother had found a fresh tear in his mackinaw and put her foot down on further search parties.
“I even told her I’d make five dollars again, but she says money ain’t everything. Can’t you make her, Pop? Pop, can’t you?”
“No,” Wilcox said heavily. “Get out of my way, boy.”
“Come here, Floyd.” Mark drew him aside. “The search is practically over now, but I know how you can make another five.” They moved over to the snow-capped fence.
Wilcox heard the low murmur of their voices. He saw his son cross his heart and spit over his left shoulder. He heard Mark’s low, long whistle. He backed his car out of the garage and waited.
They walked toward him, deep in conversation. “You say it’s in here?” Mark asked.
“Sure. I’ll get it.” Floyd ducked into the garage and came out with a sledge. “You won’t do nothing to hurt it?” he asked anxiously.
“I’ll treat it like my own,” Mark said. “Here, put it on the back seat. Got an old sack or something to cover it up?” The sack materialized, smelling of rabbits.
Wilcox looked on silently. Then he broke loose in a disgusted falsetto. “Belly-whopping on the hill to-night? Kin I come, kin I come?”
Mark grinned. “To-morrow night, and you’ll be there. . . . By the way, Floyd’s going to stay in the house to-night and all day to-morrow too. He’s not even going to church. You’ll have to make that clear to his mother. He’s not to leave the house. Got it? Even if you call him up or send a message asking him to meet you somewhere, he’s not to leave the house. The same thing goes for Chester.”
Wilcox shivered. “Get back in there, Floyd,” he said. “You heard.” He waited until the small bouncing figure slammed the kitchen door. “Ready?” he asked Mark. They drove off slowly.
Mark walked up from the station to the house. Violet was in the hall, augmenting the dinner gong with vocal invitations. He covered his ears.
“Such goings-on,” he reproved. “If we weren’t so busy, you’d get fired for that performance. Want to wake the dead?” The words hadn’t left his mouth before he started to apologize.
“Don’t mind me,” Violet said. “I wouldn’t wake ’em if I could. They’re better off.” She noticed his white face and softened. “You’re tired too, aren’t you? This is a terrible place. One minute my heart’s broke and I don’t want to speak to a living soul and the next minute I could kill somebody I’m that mad.”
“Have I got time for a drink before dinner? I guess not, huh?”
“No, they want it early. They’re crating in the cellar. I g
ot to wait at table too because Perrin’s busy. Well, you’ll get a nice long sleep to-night anyway, and I’ll sneak you one of them dusty bottles from the wine bin if you’ll tell me what year you want. I can’t get fired, I’m leaving. Say, you know what?”
“What?”
“That shopping they wanted me to go with them for. It wasn’t at all. All they bought was nails and lumber and I was begging for eggs. They just wanted me along for the sake of appearances for when they went to see Mrs. Simmons.”
“Mrs. Simmons? Florrie’s mother?”
“Yes. Mr. Morey gave her a cheque for five thousand dollars from Mrs. Morey, and a note of sympathy, but Mrs. Simmons wouldn’t take it. Five thousand dollars, and she said no thank you but I’m glad to have the note.”
“Good,” said Mark, softly.
“Good?” repeated Violet. “Well if I—”
He took her wrist as she reached for the gong again. Morey was coming down the stairs, followed by Bessie and Beulah, Bessy’s bandage was slightly askew, giving her a look that was not entirely out of character.
“Dear boy,” she said to Mark.
“Port,” whispered Beulah. “She was getting out of hand, and I let her have all she wanted. Now she’ll go to bed without any argument.”
Violet moved around the table, bearing a large chipped platter. “The china’s packed,” she said. She offered the dish to Beulah. “I don’t know if you can eat it,” she warned. “Canned beans and this other stuff here. I found it away back on a shelf. It come in a tin box with foreign writing on it and a picture of a steeple or something. Come from a country called Check. There’s English on it too. Ham, it says in English. Praygew ham.”
“Unhappy little Praygrew,” said Morey. “Betrayed again.”
“I don’t know what you’re all laughing at,” Violet said, “but if you was me I bet you’d be crying.” Her eyes filled. “And on top of everything Mr. Wilcox’s men sneaked in the kitchen while I was to the funeral and ate the rest of the rabbit I was saving for to-morrow’s stew.”
“Never mind, Violet,” Morey soothed. “I won’t forget how good you’ve been. What—what did you give Mrs. Morey and the children?”
Blood upon the Snow Page 21