The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  Fredericka was aware that her thoughts were rambling, that she was over-exercising her imagination, and that she had a cold. But as she walked back to her bookshop home under the dripping trees, she was not wholly miserable. There was now the comforting thought that the Colonel would drop by for his books—and perhaps she would ask him to stay for supper. Her tidy mind remembered that there were eggs and cheese for a soufflé.

  Chapter 3

  The Saturday of South Sutton’s great bazaar dawned clear and hot and the anxious eyes scanning the skies for danger signals were relieved at all the weather signs. There might be a thunderstorm later on in the day, but that was to be expected in July, and would only add a little excitement to the festivities.

  Fredericka got up early and sorted the collection of rental library culls promised by Miss Hartwell as the shop’s donation to the bazaar, and she had no sooner finished her task than there was a light knock at the front door. Fredericka waited a moment but her guest was more polite than most, and did not walk in. Fredericka hurried out and was delighted to discover Philippine Sutton on the doorstep. It had been a week since their first meeting on the day of Fredericka’s arrival and she had felt pleased by this first gesture of friendship and then a little hurt to find that she had been welcomed and, it seemed, forgotten.

  “I am so sorry I have not been to see you before this. I have never been so busy at the lab and the orders for herbs have been pouring in. Roger and I have been hard at work every moment since you came—” She waved a hand in the direction of the road where Fredericka could see the jeep and in it a man slumped over the wheel. “Now we have come to see if we could take the books over to the church hall for you—and even now, we can’t stay.”

  “How good of you. But can’t you both just come in for a cup of coffee? I haven’t met Mr. Sutton,” she added hesitantly.

  Philippine frowned and then smiled. “Roger,” she called, and then louder: “Roger.” The man turned but made no reply. “Come and have a cup of coffee.”

  “Really, Phil, we haven’t time to stop. You said—”

  Philippine, with a gesture of impatience, hurried down the path to the car. She spoke to Roger quietly and, a moment later, the man uncoiled himself and followed Philippine up the walk. But it was obvious in every line of his body that it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

  As he came nearer and Fredericka saw his scarred and seamed face, she could understand his reluctance. She also realized that the sensitiveness which made him hate to be seen would also make him bitterly resent any move that might be interpreted as sympathy. She shook his hand which was firm but cold in hers and then said: “Come in,” abruptly, and hurried ahead of them into the kitchen. As the two women sat down at the table in the window, Roger took his cup and stood leaning against the shelves with his face away from the light.

  Conversation was difficult at first and soon the two women were doing most of the talking with Roger standing by nervously. It was obvious that he was anxious to be on his way.

  “You can see from our clothes that we are off for the day,” Philippine said. “We must collect the wild herbs before they dry up altogether.” Roger was wearing a torn and very dirty pair of khaki trousers but his shirt was clean and his hair neatly brushed. He did not seem to be dressed for anything in particular. Philippine was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, open at the neck. It was true that she looked much less spick-and-span than when she had first met Fredericka, but much less carelessly dressed than Margie and the other village girls were at all times.

  “You both look good enough for the party, to me. But aren’t you coming then?”

  “No,” Roger announced suddenly. He walked across the room to put down his empty coffee cup in the sink and then stood over Philippine, nervously clenching and unclenching his hands.

  I couldn’t stand that for long, Fredericka thought. Then, as she looked across the table at Philippine a look of understanding and sympathy passed between them. We could be friends, Fredericka thought, but we’re both too occupied with our own affairs so there won’t be time.

  As if to underline this thought, Philippine got up to go and Fredericka sighed as she returned to her desk. She had wanted Philippine’s friendship and, if one could make the effort, there must be something worth finding out about Roger Sutton—couldn’t he be helped? She reached for the pile of publisher’s catalogues and tried to forget her visitors. She could hope for a quiet morning in the shop since everyone would be busy getting ready for the bazaar. But she had no sooner managed to concentrate on her morning’s work than Margie Hartwell came walking in the back door.

  During the week Margie had given up even the formality of knocking, and Fredericka had given up trying to make her change her ways. This morning the girl was excited and looked better than Fredericka had imagined to be possible. Even the bad complexion had been skilfully hidden under a mask of face cream and powder and for once her dress was clean and neat.

  “I’m not working today,” she announced at once, “except, of course, at the fete. But that’s more fun than washing bottles and test tubes which is about all I ever do in the lab lately. I guess they’ll shut up shop for the day at the Farm. Mrs. Sutton’s coming, of course. She always does, but Roger won’t—he hates crowds, and I don’t know about Philippine. They say they are going off to hunt wild herbs and heaven alone knows when they’ll be back.”

  Fredericka, for some reason, did not feel it necessary to mention her early callers. “Is Mrs. Clay coming?”

  “Oh, her! I wouldn’t know. I expect she will if dear James gets back in time.”

  “Are they engaged?” Fredericka couldn’t resist asking, and then regretted her question when she saw Margie’s look of Pleased Informer that she had often had occasion to observe before.

  “Engaged? Everything but, I should think. What he sees in her I can’t think but, of course, he’s no ball of fire. Lately, though, he’s been hanging around the lab a lot. I think, myself, he’s sweet on Philippine—and that makes more sense…”

  Margie was prepared to go on about this pleasant subject indefinitely but Fredericka felt it would be wise to call a halt. “Well, you needn’t help here, either. Why don’t you run along and join in the preparations.”

  But Margie, contrary as always, pouted and said slowly, “I’d just as soon help. Mom said I could so long as it wasn’t dirty work.”

  “I really haven’t anything for you to do.” Fredericka felt suddenly tired. “Unless you’d like to sit down with a book and wait on any customers.”

  “Oh, there won’t be any customers this morning—and I don’t like reading much, so I guess I will go along then.”

  And before Fredericka could attempt a reply, Margie had flounced out the front door and disappeared down the path. Once more Fredericka returned to her desk and this time she was not disturbed. Margie’s prediction proved accurate and there were no customers at all. For once, Fredericka was glad of this as she planned to shut up shop early and spend the afternoon as well as the evening at the bazaar.

  When Peter Mohun called for her at half past two she was quite ready and waiting outside in her best pink linen and large straw hat.

  “You don’t half look a picture, you don’t,” he greeted her. “And if that’s too negative for you I’d say, ‘ascribed to Gainsborough’; will that do?”

  Fredericka laughed and a feeling of holiday took possession of her. “Did he ever paint the oppressed working classes? I feel like Maid’s Day Out and more than ready for it,” she answered. “Not in the least like gentry keeping their gloves clean.”

  “Good. So do I, or rather, so don’t I. These things must always be approached with the whole heart committed. Otherwise—hello! There’s friend Carey—Thane Carey and his wife, Connie. I’d like you to meet them. Shall we ask them to sit with us at dinner?”

  “Yes, of course. But who is he?”

  “Oh, he’s our chief of police—swell guy—and shares our passion for
murder. And luckily Connie’s a fine listener.”

  “Enter the cop,” Fredericka muttered.

  “No need to be snooty,” Peter said stiffly. “He happens to be my good friend.”

  Fredericka blushed and then stumbled over her words. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I was only thinking of that murder mystery you and I were talking about last night.”

  “Did I hear the words ‘murder’ and ‘mystery’?” Thane Carey greeted them. “My bloodhound’s ears prick eager forward.”

  As Peter introduced them, Fredericka decided that she liked this young man and his wife. He had an honest, serious and ugly face in which none of the features seemed to match, but he was tall and well-built and immediately gave the impression of being both capable and businesslike. His wife was equally attractive. Her calm blue eyes gave one a sense of repose and she seemed the perfect foil to his restless energy.

  “I’m on ‘dooty’, Mohun, so don’t detain me long. Not murder, I fear. Only after pickpockets and petty thieves.” He laughed pleasantly and Connie smiled.

  Peter suggested that they should all sit together at the bean feast and talk shop—both book and crime, and the others agreed with alacrity.

  “You’ll like Thane and Connie,” Peter said when the two had disappeared in the crowds.

  “I like them both already. Does he do anything besides police the town?”

  “Oh yes. He teaches, like me—and writes a little, also like me—”

  “And me—”

  “You, too, Brutus? Now how did you keep that interesting fact from me all this time?”

  “I’m more eager than successful,” she said quickly. “I haven’t much to talk about yet. But I’m hoping to have time really to produce something now.”

  “Well, you know my line of country from the books I buy. What’s yours?”

  “I’m trying to write a joint biography of that band of Victorian novelists, the ones Hawthorne called ‘scribbling women’; Susan Warner, Maria Cummins, Mary J. Holmes, etc. It’s a far cry from your Indian warfare.”

  “Do you find you are getting any time to write?”

  “So far, not much. That bookshop seems more of a thoroughfare than I’d realized and no amount of planning keeps customers away.”

  “Which is, perhaps, fortunate. But I think you ought to use Margie more. I couldn’t possibly write at all unless I had some quiet mornings.”

  “Margie doesn’t seem to me the perfect answer,” Fredericka said a little stiffly.

  “Perfect? Of course not. Nothing in this world is perfect. But she’s a good kid at heart and will be O.K. when she gets rid of her adolescent complexes and that very bad case of acne which is part and parcel of the same thing.”

  Fredericka said nothing. Her feelings about Margie were best not expressed to anyone so obviously sympathetic to her as Peter. They walked on in silence until they came to a gaily decorated booth marked “Herbs and Tussie-Mussies.”

  “Bet you don’t know what a tussie-mussie is,” Peter announced. “Here. I’ll buy you one and then you’ll know.” He dragged her to the booth and then stopped in surprise. “Why, Mrs. Sutton, are you tending shop yourself? Where are all your assistants?”

  “Hello, Peter. How do you do, Fredericka—I hope I may call you by your first name. As a matter of fact you see me in a state of distress. Catherine promised to take the booth for me—I’m not supposed to stand, the doctor says, because of a wretched sprained ankle. Catherine’s just not appeared. However, that’s not your worry. What can I sell you? How about a tussie-mussie for the lady, Peter?” She picked up a small bouquet and smiled.

  Fredericka had met Mrs. Sutton, who had made several visits to the bookshop. She was tall and must once have been handsome, but now she looked old, and lines of worry had left only a memory of beauty in her face. She’s ill, or sick with anxiety, Fredericka felt, but she had no time to dwell on these thoughts because Peter was saying: “I like the look of that one, Margaret, but is the message fitting?”

  “Poor Miss Wing looks bewildered. A tussie-mussie is a bouquet with a message in the language of the flowers. I’ve written them all out and perhaps you’d better read this one first, Peter, and see.”

  Peter read the scrap of paper and grinned. “Perfect,” he said.

  “Can’t I see it?” Fredericka asked.

  “Not yet, but you can have the pretty posy,” Peter answered, folding the paper carefully and hiding it away in his pocket. Then he looked across at Mrs. Sutton. “Can’t we relieve you for a while?”

  “Oh no, dear Peter. It is good of you, but I’ve sent for Margie. She may sulk but I’m sure she’ll come. Oh, here she is now—thank goodness.”

  Margie pushed her way through the crowds, and as Fredericka and Peter left, they heard her say: “It isn’t my job. Catherine needn’t think she can get away with this,” and Mrs. Sutton’s voice low and soothing.

  “Poor Margie,” Peter said. “I can’t blame her. Catherine will always look out for Catherine and get away with it and the plain kids like Margie will have to fill the breach.”

  “It won’t hurt Margie,” Fredericka couldn’t help saying, and then at once regretted it when she saw Peter’s frown.

  But soon Margie and everyone else was forgotten in the fun of that hot summer afternoon. Peter and Fredericka went from booth to booth, and then sat under the shade of a nearby tree to drink lemonade and discuss life. The lazy contentment of those hours would never be forgotten by either of them even when, later, they knew them to be an overture to nightmare.

  Supper was laid in the Church Hall at six—long trestle tables covered with flowered crêpe paper and dotted with steaming bowls of baked beans, platters of ham, salad and rolls. As they entered the barracklike room now crowding with people, Peter and Fredericka stopped to admire a quilt for which the ladies of the Church Guild had been selling tickets all the week. A carefully printed notice said that over five hundred tickets had been sold and that the lucky number would be drawn after supper.

  “Please let it be me,” Fredericka breathed. “It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve taken all of five tickets.”

  “Trousseau?” Thane Carey asked, coming up quietly behind them in time to hear her prayer.

  “No, only hope chest,” Fredericka said, laughing, as they found Connie and then joined the scramble to get places together at one of the tables.

  When they had settled themselves as comfortably as possible on their hard chairs, they discovered that Margie had landed, either by accident or design, on the other side of Peter, and Fredericka sat between Peter and Thane Carey, who at once began to talk about his interest in crime and in detective fiction. Connie, on his other side, listened quietly and hardly ever spoke.

  “I’m not all that knowledgeable,” Fredericka said at length. “But I am interested, and one thing that fascinates me is the way you detectives always say that crime in real life is a very different thing from crime in fiction.”

  “But isn’t it? How much crime have you met in real life?”

  “I confess—not much. But I do know that often the writer of detective stories can in fact be good at detection himself. I’ve just been reading John Dickson Carr’s Life of Conan Doyle. The Oscar Slater case and the Edalji case at Great Wryley were both solved by Doyle himself in order to free innocent men—and, I may add if you’ll let me, in spite of the attempts to cover up made by the authorities.”

  “That was England, of course, not America,” Carey said quickly.

  Peter turned from Margie who was still grumbling about her wasted afternoon, and the fact that Catherine never had turned up at all.

  “You know, Carey,” he said, leaning across Fredericka, “Miss Wing is determined that South Sutton is the perfect place for a murder in the grand manner—”

  “On the grounds,” Carey said easily, “that the country is the place for crime. Of course, Miss Wing, you’ve sent your arrow to the heart. You were talking of Doyle just now. Remember t
his—”

  “Are they not fresh and beautiful?” I cried with all the enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.

  But Holmes shook his head gravely, “Do you know, Watson,” said he, “that it is one of the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to my own special subject. You look at the scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought that comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there… But look at these lovely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places and no one the wiser?”

  “Goodness, do you know Doyle by heart?” Fredericka asked.

  “No, but I wish I did. The Hound of the Baskervilles used to scare me silly when I was a kid. I read it over and over in a kind of orgy of pure horror and—well—I’ve loved Doyle ever since.”

  They all laughed and then Peter said: “Speaking of being scared to death at a tender age, I remember almost every word of a book written by Celia Thaxter which described the murder on the Isle of Shoals. A fisherman who had been considered a family friend for years rowed across the bay in the dead of winter, murdered two defenceless women with an axe in the middle of the night, chased another into the snow, and when captured at last, tried to put the blame for the murder onto two completely innocent men who were out fishing at the time, and were in fact the husband and the brother of one of the murdered women. It was a wild melodrama with a Gothic background and it gave me glorious nightmares.”

  “I confess to a weakness for crimes committed by professors and love university settings. Perhaps that’s why I’ve got my eye on South Sutton,” Fredericka put in.