Time to Die

by Hilda Lawrence

  She gave him a long look and turned to go away. He went with her as far as the church porch, where she collected her fan and Sunday school paper, and watched her start down the hill. He knew he would remember for a long time how her hands had looked in their carefully mended cotton gloves. There were two cars coming up in a cloud of dust. Perley. There was a third car, still far away, like a toy. He stood and waited.

  Perley, Amos Partridge, Dr. Cummings, and two deputies got out of the first two cars. They carried grappling hooks and chains. Amos had providentially turned up at Perley’s house with his negative report just as Floyd and Pee Wee had hurled themselves panting up the path. Mark indicated the third car. “We’ll wait,” he said.

  A few minutes later Beacham and Peck drew up. “Follow me,” Mark said, and he led them back to the well. Mr. Walters had kept his vigil; they sent him away, although he protested. When he was safely out of sight the deputies kicked the useless well chain aside and laid out their own equipment. Dr. Cummings stepped forward as Perley raised the wooden cover.

  Mary Cassidy had never reached the water. She hung, head down, on a long hook set in the side wall and used as a step by the man who periodically climbed down to fish out dead leaves. The hook had caught her leather belt and held her. She weighed only a hundred and ten pounds.

  When they brought her up, the hat with the little white birds was still securely fastened to her black hair. There was an arrow in her throat.

  Mark took Beacham’s arm and led him away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARK, Perley, and Beacham sat around the big table in the living room of the Beacham cottage. There was only one lamp burning because of the heat and the moths, but a few moths found their way in none the less. They were alive when they crept under the lampshade and dead when they dropped to the table.

  Amos Partridge sat in the shadows beyond the ring of light, turning his battered panama over and over in his hands. He looked beyond the table, out into the summer night where a yellow moon hung over the trees.

  There were no sounds out there. Even the crickets were hushed. It was eleven o’clock. A light wind, sweet with pine, came through the open windows and shook the curtains gently. They felt it move across the room. Then it was gone.

  Amos shivered. “Well?” he asked. “Well, what now?”

  Beacham, haggard in the lamplight, turned to Perley. “Why can’t I have her? Why can’t I take her to New York tonight?”

  “Because,” Perley said wearily, “because there aren’t any trains this late. That’s one reason.”

  “I can drive to Albany and get a train there! I can drive all the way if it comes to that! Give me the name of the man to see and I’ll fix him. She’s got to be buried. She—she’s waited—she’s waited—”

  Perley sent Mark a pleading look. “You try,” he said hopelessly.

  Mark spoke flatly. “You can’t have her now because it’s against the law. Cummings has to do an autopsy. He can’t do it until tomorrow. After that, I don’t know. But I can tell you plainly that there’s no man to see and nobody to fix. You’re not bargaining for an oil concession this time. . . . People feel sorry for you now, Beacham, but if you keep this up they’ll begin to feel something else.”

  Beacham muttered, “I can’t help it.”

  “Yes you can,” Mark said. “The kids are behaving better than you are.” He was thinking of a closed door down the hall, a door from which no sound had come for more than an hour. “Wilcox and I need your help, and all you give us is a bad imitation of Franny Peck.”

  Franny had been put to bed with sleeping pills, cold compresses, and stern hands. The hands were Cora Sheffield’s, and they could slap. Out of all the eager, tearful women who had beat a path to the cottage with offers of help, only Cora had kept her head. She’d met them at the entrance gate when they came, trailing red lace in the dust and swearing under her breath; she’d led Beacham away for a stiff drink in her own room and was now sitting in the dark, behind that closed door, her malevolent eyes moving from the beds to the windows. She’d boasted that she could hear a pine needle fall. She was waiting for that now, or something else.

  Beacham struck the table with his fist. “What do you want me to do? What do you expect me to say? Put yourselves in my position if you can. I wasn’t even here when this thing happened. Cassie looked to me for protection, the way my girls do, and I wasn’t here to give it. Can’t you see how I feel about that? I owe—I owe her something. If I could give her a quick and decent burial I’d—I’d feel better.”

  “I know,” Mark said. “But you’ll have to wait. I’m sorry. And don’t blame yourself too much. I don’t think you could have—prevented this.”

  “Maybe not,” Beacham said savagely. “But it seems to me that you could have. You and Wilcox. The whole thing reeks of negligence! Maybe not in your case because you came here in a private capacity, but Wilcox is a sheriff. How do you think it’s going to sound when I tell the newspaper boys that the sheriff was sitting under a tree when a woman was murdered a few yards away? And that it took him two days to find her? And by heaven, he didn’t even find her then! That took two kids and a country preacher!”

  “You won’t say anything to the newspapers. You’ve already called them off. They’ll print only what they have to, all personal angles out. Even the tabloids. You’re pretty influential, aren’t you?”

  “I had to do something,” Beacham mumbled. “I don’t want Joey and Roberta reading a lot of—a lot of—”

  “I don’t blame you. I’d feel the same way. . . . But why are you so certain she was killed on the church grounds? Wilcox and I aren’t. It’s true that we found some blood over by the cemetery wall, but we thought that was Miss Rayner’s. We still think so, but unfortunately it’s too late for analysis now.”

  “Why didn’t you have it analyzed at once? Isn’t that negligence?”

  “No reason for it. We didn’t even know she’d disappeared. We didn’t know that until hours later and even then there was no thought of murder. She was just gone, that’s all, and we figured she was old enough to know what she was doing. And what’s more, there never has been any reason for believing she was killed where she was found. That could have happened anywhere, in town, in Crestwood or Baldwin, even here in the Mountain House. It was beginning to grow dark when she was last seen. And it was hot. It was a nice night for a drive. She could have gone for a drive with an old friend. See?”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “I’m not sold on it myself, but it could have happened that way. He could have driven her back later, sitting stiffly beside him in the front seat, maybe with her head on his shoulder. After midnight, when the citizens were safe in bed.”

  Beacham winced.

  “Don’t like the picture, do you? Well, we’ll paint another one, with a background of white church, paper lanterns, kids, and music. And a detective and a sheriff under a locust tree. You know what those grounds are like at night? Dark with trees. There were crowds of people moving about, too; happy people, having fun. There was plenty of noise over by the archery set, and beyond that a bunch of children were playing Drop the Handkerchief. Squealing and falling down—you know the way they do. It was a perfect and normal setting. So—what’s wrong with an invitation to a little walk? Down by the well where it’s cool and quiet and where it’s also dark? Your Cassie wouldn’t think about the dark because she knew every step of the way. . . . That arrow—in strong hands it couldn’t miss and there wouldn’t be a sound.”

  Beacham put his hands on the table. “What do you want to know? What do you think I can tell you?”

  “You heard us interview the people here tonight. Every one of them saw Miss Cassidy at the supper and talked to her. They all told us the same thing—nothing. Some of them are casual hotel acquaintances, some are old friends of yours, like the Pecks. I’d like to know if any one of the latter was also an old friend of Miss Cassidy’s. You know what I mean.”

  “No!
”

  “Is any one of them a good liar?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Tomorrow Wilcox and Partridge are going to talk to every man, woman, and child who was at the church that night. I expect we’ll hear the same thing from them, nothing. But with a little luck we may turn up one slight discrepancy. That’s all we need. One small piece of unnecessary information, dragged in and emphasized. The guilty guy always does that. He thinks it makes him sound natural.”

  Beacham was a listener now, not a heckler, and Perley’s confidence returned. He took over with a no nonsense look.

  “Do you think Mr. Peck was telling the truth about what he did around that time? I mean, is he the kind of man who’d leave his wife and friends and go off by himself to get—?” He paused delicately.

  “I can vouch for Peck,” Amos said unexpectedly. “As near as we can figure the time, he was doing just what he said he was. He came over to Crestwood looking for a bottle. I told him where to get it.”

  “He’s a fool!” Beacham’s anger returned. “He should have stayed with those women. He knows as well as I do that Kirby’s worse than useless.”

  “Useless in the face of what?” Mark asked.

  “Anything. Everything. Emergencies.” Beacham’s fist struck the table again. “Talk, talk, talk. We’re not getting anywhere! If I ran my business like this I’d be ruined. Why in God’s name didn’t you people look in the well when you searched the grounds that night? There it was, out in plain sight, screaming at you!”

  “It was not in plain sight,” Mark corrected. “Even in daylight you had to know where to look. I knew there was a well somewhere on the place, but I didn’t see it. And I admit I didn’t give it a thought. That was wrong, I know now, but I had a good reason for thinking that way. I was sure nobody had gone near it after dark.”

  He told about the lemonade stand. “It was seven o’clock when those kids decided that well water was unfair competition. They drew up the bucket and chain, confiscated the dipper, and hid the entire lot in the church cellar. Floyd says a few thirsty farmers tramped around the place in a frenzy, but in no time at all the lemonade stand had all the business. The well was shunned like a plague.”

  “You see?” Perley took it up. “When the word got around, folks didn’t bother to go there. That made it— safe.”

  “Can’t you narrow it down?” Beacham asked.

  “There were two hundred people there by actual count,” Mark said. “And they all knew what the boys had done. All except Mr. Walters.” He sent Perley a thoughtful look and made a small, arresting gesture. Perley, his mouth open to speak, sat back and said nothing. Amos, deep in the shadows, rocked in his chair like an old woman. The silence continued, and Beacham looked from one face to the other.

  “Is—is it the same arrow that struck Miss Rayner?” he asked finally.

  Mark answered. “It must be. There were only six and this one rounds out the set. It’s a good set, or was. You bought it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. . . . Fingerprints! You’re testing for prints, aren’t you?”

  “We will, but there won’t be any. I saw that myself. Not even Miss Rayner’s. She says she didn’t touch it and didn’t even see it. She heard it and she certainly felt it. She seems to think it was on a string.”

  The color came back to Beacham’s face. “Does she expect anybody to believe that?”

  “Why not? I think it sounds swell.” Mark looked at his watch and yawned. “Now I think we’ll call it a night, but before the sheriff and Mr. Partridge leave I want to give you all a time-table. It’s the best I could do and I think it’s fairly accurate.” He consulted a notebook. “At eight, or thereabouts, Miss Cassidy left the supper table and told the Pecks, Miss Sheffield, and Mr. Kirby that she was going to look for Joey. Joey saw her over at the archery game. So did Roberta, Nick Sutton, Miss Rayner, Mrs. Briggs, and a town couple named Moresby, relatives of Mrs. Wilcox. Mr. Moresby remembers distinctly because Mrs. Moresby called his attention to Miss Cassidy’s ring and regretted the day she gave up a good teaching job to get married. Small talk. . . . That was the last time Miss Cassidy was admittedly seen.

  “The Peck party left the table when Miss Cassidy did. They crawled over the cemetery wall and read names on tombstones while it was still light enough to see. Then they went home, all except Peck, and Partridge clears him. That was approximately eight-thirty. Somewhere around eight-forty-five Nick Sutton got Maisie Briggs. A few minutes before nine the sixth arrow was missed. At nine-fifteen, which is as close as I can get it, Miss Rayner was struck. She dragged herself to the church, where she hoped to find help without adding to the general confusion. By that time the Briggs fiasco had frayed a few nerves, and people began to leave. Roberta went back to the Sunday school room to collect a hamper and found Miss Rayner. Roberta and Nick alibi each other, and the same thing holds for the Peck crowd.

  “Now we come to the first hurdle. Why was Miss Rayner shot? Did somebody steal the arrow with that in mind? Or was he crouching in the dark, playfully waiting for the first person who came along? You don’t have to raise your hand, Amos. Speak up.”

  “Whoever done it didn’t know he was going to do it,” Amos said flatly. “He swiped the arrow when Nick dropped it because he’s the kind of fellow who swipes on sight. It was Maisie Briggs that started him off. He got the idea about shooting when he saw Maisie laying there. He got the idea from seeing blood.”

  “But in spite of her mother’s efforts, Maisie wasn’t a bleeder.”

  “He got the idea from Maisie anyway. Then, when he saw Miss Rayner snooping around with that look on her face, he followed her in the dark and stabbed her for the hell of it. Rayner bled good, didn’t she?”

  “Very good.”

  “Well, you see? That set him off. He sees Miss Cassidy, walking along by herself to the church. There’s a whatnot in the basement. So he waits till she comes to a good dark place, and there you are. No noise. Soft grass to fall on. Maybe she didn’t even fall. He carries her over to the well, or maybe drags her. Nice and dark all the way. He drops her down.” He looked at Beacham and then at Mark. “I’d like to call your attention to one peculiar thing,” he said formally. “Both of the ladies in the case was unmarried. It might mean something.” He stood up. “Goodnight. I’ve had a hard day.” He gave Beacham a cold, accusing stare.

  He left with Perley, studiously ignoring Beacham’s outstretched hand.

  “Is he crazy?” Beacham asked.

  “No,” Mark said. “Better send Miss Sheffield away now. I’ll take over in there.”

  “I feel as if I ought to do that,” Beacham said, “but I’m all in.”

  “It’s all right. But get the lady out before I stroll through.”

  Cora Sheffield came out when Beacham knocked, blinked at the light, said nobody owed her any thanks, and swore she’d do as much for a horse.

  When she left, Mark stretched out on the bed in Roberta’s room. He was determined to stay awake, but in spite of himself his eyes closed, and he slept for half an hour. He woke at three o’clock when something struck the window screen a soft blow. When he went out to investigate his knees were shaking, and he shivered in the chill night air. It was the hour when the cold crept down from the dark, shrouded peaks. The moon was high and white. Cassie’s puppy came out of his small kennel, stared fixedly at a patch of shadow, and whined. Mark picked it up and returned it to the kennel although he didn’t want to. He walked over to the patch of shadow, but there was nothing hidden there. Nothing that he could see. He told himself that a bat had flown against the screen.

  He had turned to re-enter the cottage when a light flashed in one of the hotel windows. It stayed on for the count of ten, long enough for him to check the location. A small window, under the roof, second from the front end.

  The puppy whined again and he took it indoors with him. It was what he’d wanted to do all along. He looked in at the three occupied beds before he pulled a chair up to his own wind
ow. He sat there until dawn, with the puppy in his lap. Then he went to bed.

  It was nine when he woke. Someone had taken the alarm clock from the room and drawn the shades. It was a thoughtful gesture but one that he didn’t appreciate. He’d planned to breakfast with Perley at eight.

  Beacham was in the bathtub; he called apologies through the door and told Mark to bathe at the hotel. Cora Sheffield, he said, would be happy to provide facilities. Mark declined, shrugged into fresh clothing, put his razor in his pocket, and went out to get Beacham’s car, also provided.

  Joey was under the trees with the puppy. She had darkened his room, she said proudly, and hidden the old alarm clock. A person had to have sleep. He thanked her and inquired after Roberta. Roberta was over at the hotel with Nick.

  “Nick came over to get her,” she said. “Old man Sutton had a fit or something last night. But he won’t die. He never does.”

  “Old man Sutton doesn’t have a room up under the roof, does he?”

  “Under the roof!” She sat back on her heels, scandalized. “I should say not! He’s got three rooms on the second floor, the biggest in the whole place. One for him to sleep in, one for him to sit in, and one for Nick. And a bath.” She was being very chatty and slightly arrogant, and he knew why. The Spartan boy again. “Only servants sleep under the roof,” she said loftily. “You ought to know that.”

  “Well I didn’t know, and I thank you. I’m going down to town. Want anything?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve got everything. . . . You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

  “On the wings of a dove.” He went over to the parking lot, found Beacham’s car, and drove off.

  That would be George’s room under the roof, he decided. George, called suddenly in the middle of the night, would turn on his light just long enough to find his clothes before he hurried down to his employer. Sutton’s rooms were probably on the other side.

  The sun boiled down, and the wind that made him shiver in the night now burned like a blast from an oven. Dust filled his eyes and mouth.