Fire Will Freeze

by Margaret Millar

  “Where’s the rest of him?” she said in a hushed voice.

  In the faint light Joyce’s face looked pale and very childish. She’s scared, Isobel thought fleetingly. All her words and actions are just putting up a front.

  “I don’t know.” Joyce bit her lip and seemed suddenly ready to cry. “They—couldn’t have put him in the furnace?”

  Because Isobel herself had been thinking of the same possibility, she spoke rather sharply. “No, of course not! Don’t be silly. We have no reason to think he was—he was murdered.”

  Joyce looked silently down at the hat band she was holding.

  “I mean, it’s so silly,” Isobel added desperately. “He wouldn’t have gotten out of the bus and come here just to be murdered. It’s insane.”

  “So,” Joyce said, “is Miss Rudd.”

  They looked at each other, then Isobel dropped her eyes and turned away. “I’m going to look around a little bit. There’s a workbench over there, you can sit on it and wait for me. I might find something— something reassuring.”

  Or damning, she added to herself.

  But, except for the hat band and the monogram and the button, the cellar seemed an average one. There were pieces of broken furniture along one wall, a work table with a few simple tools, a disemboweled couch and a shelf containing paints and brushes. From the shelf she picked up a can and turned the light on it.

  “What’s that?” Joyce asked.

  “Ski wax,” Isobel said. “A fresh can of it.”

  “That’s funny. You wouldn’t expect Miss Rudd to ski and Floraine couldn’t very well leave her alone.”

  “Besides,” Isobel said, “there are no skis. Come over and hold the light, will you?”

  Joyce held the flashlight while Isobel examined the shelf and took the lid off the can of ski-wax.

  “It’s been used once or twice,” Isobel said. “And look at the shelf. It’s dusty but there isn’t a spot of dust on the can. It must have been put here very recently.”

  Holding the can she turned decisively towards the door.

  “Come on. I’m going upstairs and demand an explanation from Floraine.”

  “We can’t demand anything,” Joyce said. “It’s her house, we haven’t a right . . .”

  “She shot at us with a rifle. That’s right enough for me! Are you coming?”

  It was Isobel who led the way and Joyce who trailed behind. When they reached the first floor Joyce said that whatever demanding had to be done would be done by Miss Isobel Seton alone and unaided.

  “I’ve had enough for tonight,” she said with a wan smile. “Get Gracie to go with you. You may take the flashlight and I’ll stay down here with Mr. Goodwin.”

  So Isobel, armed with a flashlight, a button, a hat band and a monogram, went upstairs to enlist Gracie’s aid.

  She opened the door of the room and stopped short.

  Gracie moved restlessly under the covers and muttered that she felt cold.

  Isobel said nothing.

  “The blankets seem so damp,” Gracie complained. “Probably the roof leaks.”

  “No,” Isobel said in a faint voice. “It’s the cat.”

  “The cat?” Gracie opened her eyes.

  “The cat.” Isobel gulped. “Dead.”

  “Oh, you must be dreaming.” Gracie paused. “You are dreaming, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t be fatuous,” Isobel said. “Look for yourself.”

  So Gracie raised herself on one elbow and saw Etienne lying with his soft throat slit and his blood soaking into the blankets.

  5

  When Gracie screamed the whole house sprang into action, as if it had been waiting for something to happen and was ready, holding its breath.

  Bedroom doors began to open and people spilled out into the hall, clutching lamps and coats and blankets. They herded together, disheveled and frightened, asking almost in one voice: “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Then Gracie herself tottered out into the hall. She was fully clothed except for her shoes, and her stockings were stained dark red at the feet.

  Charles Crawford pointed at the stain, and there was an instant’s hush before Maudie began to scream. “Look! Herbert, I’m going to faint. I’m—going—to . . .”

  So Maudie, who had been on the verge of fainting for twenty years, finally accomplished it and was bundled back into the bedroom by Herbert. Paula Lashley went with him to give Maudie first aid.

  Crawford came over and took Gracie’s arm. “What happened?”

  “That cat,” Gracie said through her teeth. “Miss Rudd killed it on my bed. Will somebody help me get these damned stockings off?”

  Nobody offered. So Gracie, balancing herself by clinging to Crawford’s arm, got the stockings off, rolled them into a ball and tossed them back into the bedroom.

  Crawford looked inquiringly at Isobel.

  “It’s true,” Isobel said sharply. “Go in and look.”

  “Tut, tut, tut, tut,” said Mr. Hunter stroking his mustache. He caught Isobel Seton’s scornful eye on him and wished there was something he could do, something positive, or heroic. But after all you can’t wake a fellow at eleven o’clock at night and expect him to be a hero about a dead cat.

  Chad Ross was scowling at Gracie. “You think the old lady killed it?”

  “Who else?” Gracie said in exasperation. “My feet are cold.”

  Mrs. Vista mysteriously produced an enormous pair of fur mittens. “Here, put these on. I shall have to go down and break the news to Anthony. He is extremely sensitive.”

  At that moment Miss Rudd’s door opened and she darted out into the hall. She was wearing a large grey flannel nightgown which was only partly buttoned and showed her black dress underneath. She seemed very cheerful and sang out:

  “Good morning. Good morning. Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Crawford said hastily. “Where’s Floraine?”

  Instead of answering Miss Rudd threw back her head and began to bellow, “Floraine! Floraine!”

  Floraine’s door opened. “Stop that noise, Frances.” She came out into the hall, her eyebrows raised at the gathering. She wore a well-tailored wool bathrobe and her hair hung in two braids. She looked like an older and more sinister Pocahontas.

  “What is it?” she said. “Go back into your room, Frances.”

  Miss Rudd gazed at her mulishly.

  Floraine grasped her arm and tried to push. “Go into your room!”

  “. . . you, you tart, you whore, you Jezebel . . .”

  Floraine slapped her across the face. Isobel opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak Miss Rudd shambled off down the hall, holding her hand to her face, and moaning.

  “What’s happened?” Floraine said brusquely, paying no more attention to Miss Rudd.

  Crawford said, “Etienne’s throat has been cut. He was found on Miss Morning’s bed.”

  Floraine stood with her hands folded in front of her, her black eyes impassive though her voice was full of surprise. “Etienne? But that’s impossible.”

  She went into the bedroom. When she came back she was paler and worried-looking. “But she was very fond of Etienne. I can’t understand it. And I hid the scissors from her. I put them in my desk and locked the drawer.”

  “Maybe he committed suicide,” Isobel said.

  Floraine stiffened. “Frances has never raised her hand against a living thing. If she has done this it is because you’ve upset her. Mr. Crawford here has particularly upset her. He bears some resemblance to Miss Rudd’s younger brother, Harry. So I must ask you to go back into your rooms, all of you, and stay there for the night. Directly after breakfast I expect you to leave.”

  She went back into the bedroom, and when she came out again she was holding Etienne, now a bulky parcel of grey wool
, under her arm. She walked toward the head of the stairs. Finding she had no light she unceremoniously took the one Crawford was carrying and made her way downstairs. Crawford grimaced, but Isobel noticed he didn’t do any objecting.

  She made a quick decision and started down the steps after Floraine.

  “May I come, too?”

  Floraine paused and turned around at the bottom of the steps. “Why?”

  “Because,” Isobel said clearly, “I wanted to talk to you. What are you going to do with the cat?”

  She too had reached the bottom of the stairs and the two women stood gazing at each other. They were the same height, both tall, but Floraine was heavier.

  “I’m going to put him in the furnace,” Floraine said, spacing her words evenly. “If you’d care to come and watch . . .”

  “I wouldn’t put him in the furnace, if I were you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It seems so unnecessary, and—and cruel.”

  “Cruel? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Isobel felt the blood rushing to her face. “Couldn’t you put him out in the snow and then bury him afterwards? After all, he was her cat and she must have—loved him once.”

  “I liked him, too,” Floraine said levelly. “I don’t like sentimentality. Do you still persist in coming with me?”

  “No,” Isobel said. “I’ll wait here for you.”

  “You still want to talk? Very well. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Isobel sat on the bottom step. She found that her limbs were shaking. I’m letting it get me, she told herself. It isn’t just the cat, it’s everything. She could have put the driver in the furnace, too—if she cut him up first . . .

  She let out a little giggle, then quickly put her hand up to her mouth to stop it. Here she was, Isobel Seton, thirty-five years old, who had never done anything more exciting than attend first-nights—here she was, sitting on a step waiting for a woman to come and tell her what else had gone into that furnace beside a cat, waiting to hear about a man called M. Hearst who had entered a house and vanished in an hour.

  Floraine came back, cool and unperturbed. The grey parcel was gone.

  “You wanted to see me?” she said. “Come up into my room.”

  “No, thanks. I think my room would be just as convenient,” Isobel said.

  “That’s all right.”

  Floraine led the way upstairs. Gracie Morning was not in the room, having been pressed into service for the fainting Maudie.

  “Sit down,” Isobel said to Floraine. “I have something to show you.”

  She picked up the articles Joyce had found in the cellar and thrust them in front of Floraine.

  Floraine blinked. “What on earth is that? You’re being very mysterious, Miss Seton. And before we go any further may I remind you that I’m not responsible for what happens to you or the rest of them? I’m responsible for Frances Rudd.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I didn’t know there was a subject,” Floraine said dryly. “You’re showing me some junk . . .”

  “The junk belongs to the bus driver.”

  “Oh, really!” Floraine shrugged impatiently and made a move towards the door.

  “I’m not through,” Isobel said sharply. “So far you’ve been able to deny everything. You say you saw no driver, we have to believe you, temporarily. But what about those rifle shots?”

  “What about them?”

  “Is it the usual thing in this part of the country to shoot at strangers?”

  “No . . .” Floraine said softly.

  “You wouldn’t give Miss Rudd a rifle to play with. I presume the rifle was yours.”

  “Quite right.”

  “And you did the shooting.”

  “Right again. But I wasn’t shooting at strangers. I thought I was shooting at Harry, Miss Rudd’s younger brother.”

  “Even that,” Isobel said grimly, “is unusual enough. You nearly killed Mr. Goodwin.”

  Floraine laughed. “But I didn’t kill anyone, and I have a license for the gun and you were trespassing on private property. As far as I can see I don’t need to give you any explanation. But if it’s really worrying you, I have warned Harry off a number of times in the same way. He’s a persistent creature and Miss Rudd is afraid of him and I can’t have him here. He has been trying to put her in an institution. You mustn’t think that because Frances is a little peculiar she doesn’t know what’s going on. In some ways she’s very shrewd.”

  “Who pays your salary?” Isobel asked.

  Floraine frowned and said, “Really, you’re getting into things that have no concern . . .”

  “Someone must manage Miss Rudd’s money.”

  “I do, if that’s any of your business. I am Frances’ cousin, and I have the power of attorney for her affairs. I am fond of Frances. She wasn’t always the way she is now.”

  Isobel fingered the monogram M.H. After a time she said, “I’m going to keep this as a souvenir of one of the best liars I’ve ever seen.”

  Floraine smiled and said, “You’re very tired. I’m sure you’ll see things differently after you’ve had a good rest.”

  She spoke very convincingly, and for an instant Isobel felt that she must have imagined the whole thing. Then her eyes fell on the can of ski wax.

  “What about the ski wax?” she said.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “In the cellar.”

  “Your prying is very thorough,” Floraine said stiffly. “The wax belongs to Harry. He left it here some time ago. I put the can in the cellar yesterday morning because Frances thought it was something to eat. She ate some of it so I hid it from her.”

  She can explain anything, Isobel thought desperately.

  Floraine said from the doorway, “Is there anything else I can relieve your mind about?”

  Isobel looked up and met the impassive black eyes. “No,” she said wearily. “No, thank you.”

  “Well, good night.” She went into the hall again. Miss Rudd had come out of her room and was waiting for her.

  “I thought I told you to stay in your room, Frances.”

  “Oh, I can’t sleep with Harry in the house! You tell him to go, Floraine. You tell him he can’t steal any more of my . . .”

  “Go into your room,” Floraine said harshly. “I’m going to lock you in.”

  “No! Oh, no! Oh, don’t lock me in!” The voice faded, and there was the bang of a door and the clicking of a lock.

  Sometime later Gracie came back and crawled into bed, still wearing Mrs. Vista’s fur mittens on her feet. Isobel was too depressed to move. She sat in a chair beside the windows, huddled inside her coat.

  I don’t believe a word Floraine said, she thought, except what Miss Rudd confirmed, that there is someone called Harry and that he looks something like Charles Crawford.

  She took a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. The radiator began to bang again and she thought of Etienne in the cellar burning . . .

  She got up and tossed the cigarette away and stepped on it. I’ve got to talk to somebody, she thought. I can’t sit here and think about that damn cat and the bus driver.

  She flung her coat over her shoulders again, reassured herself that Gracie was sleeping, and picked up the lamp.

  In the hall she stopped a minute before Miss Rudd’s door and tried the knob. Floraine had kept her word and Miss Rudd was locked in for the night and the light was out. She stood, listening to know if Miss Rudd had gone to sleep. Then she heard a faint muffled whispering from the room and bent her ear to the keyhole.

  But it was not Miss Rudd talking there in the dark room. Even when she whispered, Floraine could not conceal the nasal accent that identified her.

  “. . . be all right. Don’t lose your nerve. She’ll be gone in
the morning.”

  There was a faint murmur in reply.

  “She can’t do a thing,” Floraine said. “Nobody can do a thing to spoil it.”

  The murmur again, obviously protesting. Then a movement of feet inside the room.

  Isobel walked away on tiptoe and made for Mr. Crawford’s room. She had her hand up ready to knock when Joyce appeared beside her, materializing out of the darkness.

  “What are you doing?” Joyce said in a low voice. “You’d better go back to your room. You don’t want to stir up trouble.”

  Isobel said, “I can’t stay in that room. I want somebody to talk to.”

  “You heard what Floraine said about Miss Rudd,” Joyce hissed. “Do you want us all to be murdered?”

  “I can’t . . .”

  “Don’t be a baby! And don’t—” Joyce narrowed her eyes—“don’t rely on Mr. Crawford.” She turned on her heel and went back to her room. Isobel noticed that she had taken off her shoes and moved silently as a cat.

  What a queer girl, Isobel thought. But there had been something very convincing in her voice and Isobel went reluctantly back to her room.

  She put a chair underneath the doorknob, and taking off her coat, she lay down beside Gracie. Her head ached and her cheeks burned from the wind and whenever she closed her eyes images dangled in her mind. The cat bleeding on the blanket. Miss Rudd holding the cheek Floraine had slapped. The cat again, wrapped in the grey blanket and tucked under Floraine’s arm.

  “She’ll be gone in the morning,” Floraine had said. Who was “she”? What could she do to spoil anything for Floraine and the person with the murmur?

  She couldn’t have meant me, Isobel thought. I can’t do anything except ask questions.

  But perhaps that was what she meant. Perhaps she was really disturbed by one of the questions, if not all of them.

  Gracie gave a little snore and turned on her other side, dragging the blanket with her. Isobel tugged at the blanket until she regained half of it and settled down again to think. But the images kept coming too fast and gradually they distorted beyond recognition and Isobel slept.

  In a room across the hall, Mrs. Vista lay on the bed, a mountain of blankets twitching like an incipient volcano. She occupied exactly two-thirds of the bed—she had measured the amount scrupulously—but even this did not seem to be enough now that she had had a short nap.