by Andre Norton
“I see—But Peter—”
“We’ll leave him out of this. I don’t know why I’m talking so much as it is.”
Fredericka couldn’t resist asking one more question. “But doesn’t the fact of the box being there at the Farm and—and a sort of flower or herb kind of poisoning—point to someone out there? I mean, can’t you narrow it down?” She stopped abruptly, seeing his frown.
“No. Look at it this way. Suppose the murderer wanted to make it look like someone out there. It would be a beautiful blind, wouldn’t it? All those herbs, poison and plain, are labelled and easily accessible. Nothing whatever is under lock and key and the whole town runs in and out of the place all the time. And now I really have talked too much, and I am unworthy of my—I was going to say stripes—but perhaps badge is the right word.” He smiled pleasantly, however, and then added: “Perhaps I should just confess that Peter says you can be trusted. How he knows I can’t think. But there it is, and like a lot of other people in this town for me what Colonel Peter Mohun says—GOES.”
Fredericka said nothing and after a moment Thane got up. “I haven’t mentioned that business about Margie paying you a midnight visit but I can assure you that it has been very much on my mind.”
“It was Margie then?”
“I’m quite certain it was but she won’t admit it. Scared stiff to, I suppose. I even told her we knew about her beauty parlor in the greenhouse but that was a mistake. She only became more clam-like than ever. If she wasn’t such a kid, I’d resort to third degree—”
“Someone ought to be able to win her confidence and trust. That would make more sense.” Fredericka thought guiltily of her own failure but then Margie had made her an enemy from the moment of their first meeting.
“Well, we can but try.”
Fredericka followed Thane to the door and watched him put on his hat. Then he grinned back at her from the path. “Scorcher, isn’t it? Just my luck with a thousand and one people to see and they’ll all be bears, I wouldn’t wonder.”
“You seem to have covered a lot of ground already,” Fredericka couldn’t resist saying.
“I work late and early. But so far, only the obvious suspects and that’s about one fiftieth of the job. A policeman’s lot—and all that!”
He doesn’t look in the least like a policeman, Fredericka decided as she returned to her desk and the comparative comfort of the office. He doesn’t even wear a uniform and his disreputable hat is only a concession to the sun. But perhaps chiefs are like plainclothes men. Perhaps they graduate out of a uniform or keep it pressed for state occasions.
It was only ten-thirty. And already the day had been hours long. Well, the bookshop must come first, and Fredericka Wing must get back to work. With a great effort of will, she tore her list of suspects off the pad and began to jot down titles and publishers. But after a few moments she remembered that it was early closing day in the village. Miss Hartwell had said she could shut up the shop or not as she wanted. Perhaps she would lock the doors and retire to her sanctuary in the apple orchard where she had escaped often in that other life—that blessed week before the murder. There she could read in peace even if her mind was in too much of a turmoil to write. Chris would be knocking off at noon, she felt sure…and she didn’t really want to be alone in the shop… On such a hot day customers would be few and far between…
This serious matter decided, Fredericka returned to her list but she had added only one title when Mrs. Williams appeared. Her visit was ostensibly to “borrow” Bertrand Russell which her husband wanted to quote in his sermon but it was obvious that, in fact, she wanted to discuss the latest developments in South Sutton’s first murder case. Fredericka had no sooner got rid of her than Margie made one of her sudden back door entrances, came straight to the office, and sank limply into the big chair.
Fredericka’s annoyance faded at sight of the girl’s flushed face and distraught manner. “What’s the matter, Margie?” she asked kindly. Perhaps now, at last, she could talk to the child. Confront her with facts and force her to an admission of whatever it was that she was hiding.
“Nothing.” Margie’s voice was sullen.
For a moment Fredericka said no more, and made a pretence of returning to work.
“Mother wants that cookery book I told you about last week.”
“I don’t think it’s come yet.”
“Chris has just brought up a parcel from the post office. I saw him taking it back to the stockroom when I came in.” She hesitated, then said: “Shall I go down and see if the book’s in it?”
The thought of Margie undoing a parcel that hadn’t been checked and mussing up the stock was too much for Fredericka.
“No, I’ll go,” she said, without enthusiasm. But perhaps if she humoured the child, she would divulge what was on her mind.
Fredericka had gone halfway down the back path when a sudden thought occurred to her. That cook book couldn’t possibly have come in so soon. Margie was up to some mischief, and Margie was on the suspect list—more than that, Margie’s mischief could be serious. She turned in her tracks and hurried back to the house. She slipped off her shoes at the back door and returned quietly to the office.
Margie, with her back to the door was searching frantically through the desk drawer.
“What are you doing, Margie?” Fredericka asked sharply.
The girl stopped her search as though she had been struck, slammed the drawer and swung round. Her eyes were frantic and staring and her cheeks crimson. She looked not only frightened, but ill.
“I—I left a notebook here when I was in the other day,” she said quickly.
“Surely not in my desk drawer.”
“Well. You might have put it in. I didn’t know.”
“You could have asked.” Margie made no reply. She seemed to crumple suddenly and slumped into the chair.
“Are you ill?” Fredericka asked. She was now torn between anxiety and anger.
“No I’m not. But if you think I’m going to say anything more to you, I’m not. What business have you to keep someone else’s silver box in your drawer anyway?”
“So that’s what you were after.” Fredericka sat down, and put her hand on Margie’s knee. “Come Margie,” she said quietly, “tell me what it’s all about.” But Margie’s face had set in a mask of hatred—or fear, Fredericka couldn’t be sure which.
After a few fruitless attempts to make the girl speak, Fredericka lost her temper. “Margie, I must say to you now and for all time, that, if you can’t behave yourself, you needn’t come here at all. Miss Hartwell said you would help me. Help indeed. You barge in and out without knocking. You rummage in the storeroom. You play insufferable childish pranks. And now you rummage in my desk—”
“Aunt Lucy’s desk.” Margie’s face was now blotched with deep purple stains—and her words sounded strangled.
“You’d better go then, Margie, before I lose my temper altogether. I’m in charge here now, as it happens. And for the time being this is my desk.” Fredericka felt suddenly ashamed. Why did this child enrage her so? She struggled with herself but before she could speak again, Margie had got to her feet quickly and had slammed her way out of the house.
What a fine detective she had turned out to be. Whatever would Peter think of her? Oh well, it was too hot to care—too hot to chase after the wretched girl. Fredericka looked at her watch and saw with relief that it was after twelve. She would just get some cold coffee for lunch and then lock up and escape. The orchard would be hot, perhaps, but less so than the house and no one could find her there. Blessed thought.
When Fredericka looked out the back door and saw that Chris was still working away at the shrubs with his pruning knife, she called to him and he dropped his tool as though he had been attacked. Then he stooped to pick it up and turned to come toward her. It was like a slowmotion film.
“Sure am hot,” he volunteered when he had come close enough to be heard.
“Yes. I though
t you might like some iced coffee,” she added. Suddenly she didn’t want him to go. She didn’t want to be left alone. Peter had spoken of a police guard but Thane Carey had said nothing about it.
“Sure thing.” Chris answered her with a tired smile and, as Frederick turned to go in, he sank down on to the porch and pulled out a red and white spotted handkerchief to mop his face and neck.
Fredericka carried his drink and a plate of sandwiches out on to the porch and after she had had her own lunch she went back to find him still sitting as she had left him. He looked up at her and she could see the panic on his face.
“I reckon I ought to give you-all the benefit of my perteckshun this afternoon,” he said slowly.
“Oh no, Chris. I—I’m all right. I don’t think anyone wants to do me any harm,” she said with a thin show of courage.
“No, Ma’am, Miss Wing, that ain’t the trouble. It’s jes’ these kids around here. I been chasin’ them off’n the place all the morning. Comin’ in every which ways to see where the—the murder been done at.”
This was an unexpected development. Annoying.
“There’s one of ’em now.” A tousled dark head appeared through the shrubbery and, finding itself observed, as quickly withdrew.
“Up to mischief all the hours of the day and night. Don’t mean no harm though.”
“No—unless they start collecting souvenirs.” Fredericka had no great love for children and a few weeks filling in for a children’s librarian in a branch on the lower east side of New York had given her a wholesome respect for their capacity for devilry. But country kids should be more manageable. Still… She was thoughtful for a moment. This could be used as a reasonable excuse to telephone the Police Station and ask for a man to guard the place. She couldn’t expect Peter to come another night—and she mustn’t admit to being afraid. No, if this worked it would be wonderful. She got up quickly and, after mumbling something to Chris about waiting a few minutes longer, she went in to the office to telephone.
The sergeant on duty was polite but not very helpful. Once more, she asked to speak to the chief, and this request was followed by a long pause. Then, at last, she heard Thane Carey’s voice.
“Sorry, Fredericka,” he said, before she could speak, “Sergeant Brown tells me you’ve had to call up and ask for a man and I had intended to send one around long ago. I might have known the kids wouldn’t miss this swell chance to play up. The trouble is I’ve got to get help from Worcester and the two men I asked for haven’t come in yet. But I’ll send Brown down anyway. I’ll be here until the others come in. They’re due any minute now.”
“That’s all right, Thane, I’m afraid I’m being a nuisance. I wouldn’t mind so much except that it’s Miss Hartwell’s place, not mine.” She was pleased that her voice sounded casual and concerned, but not too concerned.
“I know, and both Peter and I think you ought to have someone around anyway. In fact we’d like to strew men around all over the map. That’s why I have to have help.”
“But there’s no hurry, Thane,” Fredericka said quickly, “I’ve got Chris here. It’s his afternoon off but I’m sure he’ll stay until your extra men arrive.”
“O.K. then. Thanks.” The receiver clicked abruptly and Fredericka was aware of her disappointment. She had been longing to ask where the other men would be placed and whether or not there was any fresh news. But perhaps it was just as well for him to be businesslike, especially on the telephone. She got up and went back to the porch to collect the soiled dishes. Chris appeared to be half-asleep in the midday heat and when Frederick roused him, he seemed a little reluctant to stay on alone. For this reason, she decided to postpone her retreat to the orchard and returned without enthusiasm to her cluttered desk.
As Fredericka worked, her mind kept returning to Margie. What had she been doing in the greenhouse in the middle of the night? Why had she been so upset today? Why did she want that miserable box? A sense of guilt overwhelmed Fredericka. If only she could bring herself to like the girl or even feel sorry for her, then she might have persuaded her to stay and have gotten a confession from her. Notebook. What absolute nonsense. The more she thought of Margie, the more her own sense of failure increased. Peter had always been so much kinder to the girl than she had been. He would have quieted her overwrought nerves and drawn her out slowly. What a fine Watson Fredericka was turning out to be, she thought, and what a fine compassionate motherly female, too.
Fredericka was relieved to be released from these uncomfortable thoughts by the arrival of the policeman. It proved to be Sergeant Brown whom she knew, because it was he who had been on duty outside on the night of Catherine Clay’s death. He was a pleasant open-faced young man and much nicer, Fredericka decided, in the flesh than on the telephone. Perhaps it was the effect of the police station and the shadow of Thane Carey. She offered him iced coffee which he accepted with alacrity, and then said he’d tell Chris to go along and that he himself would “just hang about” outside. Fredericka told him of her plan to escape to the orchard to rest and work in peace and he nodded his approval.
“I should think you’d be dead, Miss Wing,” he said. “This isn’t what we usually provide for newcomers to South Sutton, Mass.”
“I’m quite aware of that. It’s a lovely place.”
Sergeant Brown started to enlarge on its beauties but Fredericka cut him short with, “Yes. Well, now I must get my things together.” The young man moved off toward the back door smoothing his beautifully brilliantined hair with a large sunburnt hand before replacing his cap. But just as he opened the screen, he turned back to call loudly: “Now don’t you worry, Miss Wing. When I’m on duty, I’m on duty, if you know what I mean. I’m O.K. as a watchdog.”
“Watchdog.” Good. It made her think of Peter, and that was good, too.
As Fredericka went out by the back door she called goodbye to Chris, who answered her cheerfully. Ten minutes later she had made herself a nest in the long grass under an ancient pear tree and had opened her book. In another ten minutes she was fast asleep.
Chapter 11
After her nap in the orchard, Fredericka felt much better. She got slowly to her feet and picked up her clean pad of paper, her unused pencil and her unread book. Then she looked at her watch and was amazed to discover that she had slept for three hours. When she got back to the house, Sergeant Brown was nowhere to be seen and, feeling the silence and the loneliness, she managed to bang the screen door as she went indoors. The noise reassured her and it occurred to her that it might also summon her protector. And she was right. In a few moments Sergeant Brown put his head inside the kitchen door where Fredericka was making some fresh iced tea. He took a glass when she offered it to him and lingered a moment to gossip, with his broad back leaning against the door frame and his giant’s feet crossed before him.
“Have the children kept you busy?” Fredericka asked, sipping her own tea with pleasure.
“No.” He laughed, and then added: “It’s like having a cat in the house just to keep away mice. Policeman’s the same thing as regards kids.”
“I’m afraid it’s been pretty boring for you then. I’m sorry.”
“To tell you the truth I can do with a quiet spell. We’ve had all the fireworks we want in South Sutton for some time to come. Amen.”
“I would have thought you were young enough to like fireworks.” Fredericka felt that she was being stupid. But even a dull and pointless conversation was better than no conversation at all. The broadness of Sergeant Brown’s back and the sight of the revolver in its holster were very reassuring. She offered him some more tea quickly and filled his glass before he could refuse.
But she had slept too long. She couldn’t concentrate and, after a time, she couldn’t think of anything more to say herself. Sergeant Brown refused a third glass of tea and muttered something about getting back on the job. As he left, he said over his shoulder: “Nothing to worry about, Miss Wing. You can count on Jim Brown. I’ll stay within ca
ll, but if this afternoon’s a fair sample, I’m not going to be wanted much longer—worse luck!”
As it turned out, the peace of Sergeant Brown’s first afternoon held for two days and two nights, but Thane Carey did not take him off the job of guarding Fredericka and the bookshop. This was a great relief to the new manager, who could not shake her conviction that the peace was a false one, a lull before the final storm. Even at the post office the cheerful voices of the gossips were subdued and heavy with foreboding. In the bookshop, people no longer stopped to talk. Fredericka, who had become unnaturally sensitive, felt that, by having the corpse lie in her hammock, and, even worse, by discovering it herself in the first place, she had assumed the position of chief suspect in the eyes of the town. She thought it unfair to divulge, even to Philippine and those most frequent customers who were becoming friends that she had been freed of suspicion by the chief of police himself. But the loneliness, caused by the unfortunate circumstances of her position, increased. Sergeant Brown’s comforting presence released her from fear but not from worry. The worst of it was that, since the night that Peter Mohun had slept on the office couch, she had seen nothing of him. She thought over the events of that evening and tried to remember every word that they had spoken to each other. But it all added up to the message he had given her in his hateful book. Perhaps that was why he found it necessary to leave her so severely alone.