Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 01/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  Sounds from the kitchen. The stove lid, ashes being raked, paper crumpled, wood, coal, lid back, ice breaking on the bucket ... Nell sat up in a rush. It was morning. She did her hair and other essentials before going into the kitchen. James Stark stood by the stove, warming his hands over the fire. The boys came thundering down the stairs, followed by Pearl, holding Violet.

  “I must see to Graham,” Nell said. “He’s not coughing yet, that may be a good sign.”

  “Let me,” Pearl said. “Sure and I haven’t seen my own husband for a fortnight. Surely it will be safe enough just for the look.”

  Nell took the baby, and Pearl went running into the parlor. A moment later, Pearl gave a demon’s shriek, and they all ran in. Graham was lying on his sofa bed, head thrown back, his lint-blond hair and bony face looking the sickly mirror of his father.

  “He’s dead!” Pearl screamed. “He’s dead!”

  Arthur and John began to howl, but Bill simply stared.

  “The children,” Nell began, but Pearl interrupted.

  “And this!” Pearl snatched the little brown bottle from Graham’s bedside and held it up. She turned on Nell like an avenging angel. “How could you have left this with him?”

  “I ... I didn’t!” Nell cried. “I took it with me ... You saw me put it up in the kitchen cupboard ...”

  “How much did you give him?” Pearl hissed. “As much as you gave Patrick?”

  Nell felt as if only her corsets were holding her up. The attack horrified her. “I never—”

  “Everyone speaks of it. They all say that you quarreled. That he—”

  “Pearl.” James Stark said the one word, and she was quiet. “Bill, run and fetch Doc Peterson. Right away.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bill was off like a shot.

  “We will go into the kitchen.”

  James Stark marched the boys out of the room. Pearl’s eyes blazed on Nell as she swept past. Nell stood where she was. What had happened? How had the bottle gotten from the kitchen to the parlor? Had Graham gotten up and managed to get past her, lying on the sitting room floor? Had she been so exhausted she did not awaken?

  “Nell.” James Stark’s voice called her. “Come and have coffee.”

  She walked woodenly into the kitchen. “Where are the boys?”

  “Upstairs, with Pearl.” James Stark looked hard as iron, and Nell’s legs gave way as she sat down. He poured her coffee. Dr. Peterson came in. “If you will follow me, Doctor.”

  The silent house seemed to engulf Nell. She tried to drink her coffee, but her hand shook, her stomach revolted. They would all believe that she had given him an overdose. That she had killed him. They believed she had killed Patrick, and if they had not before, they would now. Patrick, whom she’d loved. Oh, they had had terrible quarrels. But she had loved him. That was why they fought, because she loved him, and he was turning himself into a beast with drink ... And then he had tried to stop. He threw himself into his work, but his hands shook, and his body ached, and his mind ... And it only got worse. Just a small dose, that was all. Just a small dose she had given him and then another, for he was shaking all over by then, and crying with pain. And another, when the shrieking came, scaring the life out of the boys. And another, when the shaking rocked the whole bed. And another ... And ... And he had stopped shaking. And he had never moved again ...

  She looked up as the two men returned.

  “Heart failure,” Dr. Peterson said. “From fluid on the lungs.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry for your loss, James. I’ll stop in at Walworth’s, if you’d like.”

  “I would appreciate that,” James Stark replied, and escorted him out.

  When he returned, Nell looked up at him, beseechingly. “It was heart failure?”

  “No. But that is what he’ll say, to spare us. It was laudanum.” He leaned against the counter and stared down at it. “I am bitterly ashamed.”

  “No! I did not do it!”

  “I know that.” He looked out the window, at the brown street. “Oh, Nellie. You have found in this house a sorry refuge. A house of deceit and lust and lies. My grandchild is my child, Nell. Graham knew. He ... colluded to spare Martha, and then to spare you. Or perhaps to spare himself?” He shook his head. “But whether he killed himself, in despair, or she killed him, I will never know.”

  “Pearl!”

  “She got up in the middle of the night.”

  Nell gasped, suddenly seeing Pearl’s little white foot slipping out of James Stark’s bed ... Something twisted deep inside of her. It was all true, and she had never known ... “‘A pearl of great price.’ Too great. It has cost me everything: my self-respect, my honor, my son.” He turned from the counter, his eyes wet. “I must go up and speak with her. I have placed a notice on the door of the shop. Would you shutter the windows, and then look after the boys?”

  All that day, in the dark of shuttered windows and the silence bought by the notice DEATH IN THE FAMILY, Nell watched the children, prepared food, received condolences, and thought furiously. What was she to do now? She could never marry James Stark now, and who was to say that he still wanted to marry her? Or ever had wanted to marry her? Her face was grim as she considered that he had tried to deflect attention from the truth of his liaison with one daughter-in-law by creating the illusion of desire for another daughter-in-law. And both of them murderesses, in desire, in act, in will, in result. Something he would never know, not for certain. Until, perhaps, sweet Pearl would find a need to be rid of him.

  William and Harold, with their wives, came by nightfall. Sitting at supper, everyone played their roles of grief: widow, father, brothers, sisters-in-law. Nell could barely eat. After supper, Nell retreated to her room, pleading exhaustion, but truly because if she stayed, she might scream the truth out—and no one would believe her. Instead, she packed her trunk, and the day after the funeral she and the boys went to Sioux Falls. She took in washing, she saved her pennies, she declined all help from James Stark. When she read in the newspaper that Pearl had died of blood poisoning two years later, she trembled for fear that James Stark would come for her. But he did not. She never heard from him again. She never went near Laskin again. Years later, when her sons came into their inheritance and farmed up there, she learned that James Stark had found a fourth wife, a young German woman who bore him three daughters: The first he had named Nell.

  Copyright © 2010 Eve Fisher

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  Fiction

  THE BERSERK FEUD

  MIKE CULPEPPER

  Art by Tim Foley

  When Colm got back from raiding, it was almost winter and there was little to be done on the farm. The ewe and her daughter had just gone into heat and needed breeding and there was a decision to be made about whether to geld the young ram or not. “I waited for you to come back,” said Gwyneth. “I didn’t want to decide without you.”

  “Then I’m glad to be here,” said Colm, “but what are your thoughts?” In truth, he would have supported any decision of Gwyneth’s and called it perfect; he could not question the choices she made in his absence—better he had been here to make them himself!

  “Well, sometimes I think one way, then I think the other.” She glanced at old Edgar who sat down the bench, studying his bowl as though to raise more skyr within it. Edgar had been a slave long enough to know that he should speak only when spoken to.

  “Do you have thoughts on this, Edgar?” The old man still seemed hesitant. “After all,” Colm nudged, “you have more experience in these matters.”

  Edgar cleared his throat and began a long discussion of the pros and cons. He was toothless and his words were sometimes difficult to understand, but the choice was clear enough. A ram to impregnate the ewes would mean not having to ask for this service from another’s animal; on the other hand, every flock required a wether or two to protect it and show some sense to the ewes, who were taken up with lambs and milk, and the r
ams, whose brains were all balls. There was no question, this year, of slaughtering the animal for meat—that must await the time that there were so many sheep that this kind of decision would be a simple, everyday occurrence. Then something Edgar said caught Colm’s ear.

  “You say that Ketil has a good ram?”

  “He has a spotted brown. Both its parents were spotted too. His dam bears twins two times in three and gives an extra week’s milk. His sire had many offspring, good wethers and breeders, too.”

  “You think we should breed to this ram?”

  “Oh, aye ...” Edgar shrugged. Colm knew there was more to be said.

  “What else?”

  “Well, Ketil has some doubts about breeding to this ram. Last season, many births were strange, including a two-headed ewe.”

  “Is the ram cursed?”

  Edgar shrugged, “Who can say? But ...” He shrugged again.

  Colm called up patience and wheedled old Edgar into speech.

  “Well,” said the old man, “the old ram, this one’s sire is gone. Oh, that was a feast! He was heavy with meat.” A trickle of saliva ran from Edgar’s mouth as he recalled feeding on whatever scraps were allowed him.

  “So all of Ketil’s sheep are from the one ram?”

  “Aye,” said Edgar, “and now this young one’s doing all the tupping.”

  “Ah!” said Colm. “You think he needs to breed out.”

  “Well, I believe Ketil thinks so. These things happen when there is no new blood. Or when the animal is cursed, of course.”

  “Of course.” Colm’s mind raced. “You think he might trade this ram for mine?”

  Edgar raised guileless eyes. “Well, now, that would be a good trade!” He shook his head. “You are a smart one to come up with that idea.”

  Colm smiled. “Gwyneth, is there more skyr? I see Edgar’s bowl is empty.”

  Laughing, Gwyneth went to fetch the old man some more food.

  Colm had been surprised, when he returned from raiding, to find Gwyneth at the Trollfarm. He had thought she would stay at Bjorn’s steading. And at first, Gwyneth had lived there, working at chores around the place. But Gwyneth finally determined to stay in her own house and she was a free woman, free to go wherever she wished. She got Edgar to help at the Trollfarm and live with her after the sheep came down from summer pasture. There was not enough work at Bjorn’s farm during the winter for all his slaves, and Edgar staying at the Trollfarm meant one less mouth for Bjorn to feed.

  So Colm was surprised to find Gwyneth and the old man at the Trollfarm when he returned. He wasn’t jealous. Edgar was far past the age to threaten any woman’s honor—not that Gwyneth would have been blamed if she had taken a lover—but he was also too old to defend a woman, as well.

  Colm had said so much to Gwyneth and she blazed back at him, “You think I am defenseless? No man enters this house unless I allow it!”

  Colm recalled that Gwyneth had killed a man two winters past, something they never spoke about. And he spotted the spear placed near the doorway, where the house was easiest to defend. And he noted the spearhead, sharper than a dagger, placed near Gwyneth’s workplace, where she spun what wool she had. Still, he recalled the broken Frisian women taken as slaves and knew how futile her defense would prove against a gang of raiders. But he loved her when she showed spirit and decided not to say anything that might cause her to feel weak.

  Gwyneth had spun the wool she gathered from the three sheep they owned and traded the thread for a hen and now the yard was full of chickens. There was a dog, too, from somewhere, always ready to bark a warning at any and every intruder on the place, so Gwyneth named him Gagarr. Colm had been surprised when he returned to the Trollfarm, to see it looking like a real farm with life everywhere. Some hay had been harvested, though much of the crop had been left to rot in the cold rain of autumn. Colm cut it down so that it would not choke the new grass in the spring. He saw that far more had been harvested than old Edgar could manage alone, and Colm supposed that Gwyneth had picked up men’s tools and done work that, strictly speaking, was forbidden her. Not that women were ever punished for unlawfully doing men’s work or handling weapons. It would take a courageous man to ever bring such an action and risk the wrath of all women everywhere for the rest of his days! So Colm said nothing about the matter. This was another of those things that both knew but neither mentioned.

  Ketil came by to examine Colm’s ram. The animal gratified his owner by bleating and butting against the fence that kept him from the ewes that he could smell. Ketil said, “Well, he seems lively enough. I suppose he’s up to the job.”

  The ewes were well along in heat now and Colm wanted to breed them soon, but he wished to avoid seeming anxious or in a hurry. He thought Ketil was willing to trade even up, but if he sniffed out an advantage, he would take it and demand that the deal be sweetened. Now Ketil said, “Of course, my ram is a proven breeder.”

  Colm nodded. “Yes. How are his lambs anyway?” He knew very well that several were deformed and hadn’t survived long past their birth. Ketil chewed on an answer and Colm added, “Just how old is he?”

  “Only four. Well, this will be his fifth breeding.”

  Colm nodded thoughtfully as though calculating how many years the ram had left. “Hmm ...” He already knew how old Ketil’s ram was, and its complete pedigree too. Edgar was a fount of knowledge.

  “Ah, well, this ram seems well enough,” said Ketil. He sighed a great sigh. “I’ll take a chance and swap mine for yours.”

  “Well ...” Colm acted reluctant. “He does have five more years of breeding in him than yours.” He glanced sideways at Ketil, watching for a sign that there was an advantage here that he could work.

  “Four,” said Ketil firmly, “And my ram is proven.”

  Colm sighed, paused, nodded. “I suppose this is a trade then.”

  They slapped palms and agreed to meet the next day, halfway between their farms, and exchange rams. Both men were secretly pleased though neither let any sign of it show.

  The new ram proved energetic and responsive, going straight to his work on being introduced to the ewes. Colm and Gwyneth watched him perform for a time, then felt a pressing need to go back inside the house. Old Edgar had already determined that this was a time for privacy and gone off on some errand or other.

  Soon it was time for the autumn sacrifice. Colm was a bit nervous. This would be his first attendance as a free man and he was uncertain how to act. Also, this was his second harvest at the Trollfarm and his rent was due. The first harvest was not of much account—some hay, that was all—and the second wasn’t much better, since Colm had been raiding and unable to work the place. Still, the flock increased from one to three sheep and there was a little wool, all spun into thread now by Gwyneth, and hay enough for the winter. Oh, and Gwyneth’s chickens, more every time he looked, and eggs, though Gwyneth traded most of the excess for cow’s milk and the tools she required to handle the wool. She had card and comb, distaff and spindle, and lacked only a loom to begin weaving. Colm kept an eye out for proper sized wood to make one. So Colm was apprehensive when he approached Bjorn and Thorolf about the rent.

  “Not much of an increase this season,” said Thorolf.

  “No,” Colm agreed.

  “My fault,” said Bjorn, “for taking the man away from his farm.”

  Thorolf shrugged, “Faults are easy to find and one can’t spend blame. Well, there are some chickens, I believe?”

  “Yes,” said Colm, “A little wool, some hay, two lambs ... Oh! And these.” He pulled the three pennies, his raiding loot, from his purse and held them out. “I think this one’s bad metal.” He pointed to the thick Frankish coin. “But the other two seem good silver.”

  “Ah.” Thorolf took the Arab dirham and bent it between his thumb and forefinger. He examined the crease. “Looks good,” he said. “Suppose this penny and two chickens for the year?”

  Colm nodded, relieved at not having to pay more an
d embarrassed at paying so little. A good farm should pay sixpence or more in rent.

  Bjorn cleared his throat. “That sounds right.” He was also owed a tenth. He would take the same amount named by Thorolf so as not to put his chieftain in the wrong. He reached for the Frankish coin.

  “No,” said Colm, “Take the good penny. I’ll keep this one as a souvenir.” And to remind me of truth and counterfeit, he thought. So the three men slapped hands and, business done, set to drink and talk.

  Colm was only a freed man but he had a certain status in the community. Magnus honored him for avenging his son, and others were interested in hearing about his raiding adventure. He spoke with Ketil for a time, and though neither man bragged about the ram he had gotten from the other, both had pregnant ewes and were satisfied with the trade. Gwyneth, too, found women she could talk to, though she had harder going than Colm, for women tend to be very serious about status. But both felt good about their reception at the feast. Colm made hearty toasts to the gods, especially Frey, who brought abundance. Gwyneth made silent pledges to Frey and Freya as well, praying that she would soon be with child. Both drank a little too much but neither was sick or foolish or embarrassed. It was a successful feast for them.

  Winter drew on. The wolf ate the sun and daylight lasted only a few hours. Cold darkness waited outside, a great emptiness, and they spent hours huddled near the smoky fire pit, doing small chores and talking of this or that. There was some gossip, of course, and they knew some tales remembered from the places they had been born and others that they learned from the Norse. So they talked and told stories until they had said everything they had to say several times over.

  One morning, Gwyneth rose, went into the yard, and killed a cockerel. She pitched the bird into a stewpot and set it cooking. “The sun is coming back,” she announced. “The days are getting longer.” And Colm and Edgar breathed in the cooking aroma and felt warm and glad.

  They ate the chicken, sucking the bones clean before they threw them to the dog. They laughed and told their tales again and defied winter and were happy to be alive in the cold season of death.