“Miss Bancroft, I believe.”
Nothing of Marta in this voice. Nothing of Marta in this woman at all.
“Tod—Mr. Graham—told me you were to be with us today. I’m so happy.”
The words were right. Lisa didn’t know why she felt as if she were being held at the end of a stick.
“I understand you’re thinking of doing a book about my late husband.”
You understand from whom? Tod Graham? Lisa wanted to ask. She didn’t. Instead, she said,
“I really haven’t decided, Mrs. Cornish. I wouldn’t attempt it without your permission, of course.”
“My permission?” A faint smile. It seemed unlikely that Nydia Cornish’s smile would ever be more than faint. “That needn’t worry you, I’m sure. I’ll be only too happy to cooperate if I’m needed.”
Now Lisa was beyond words. This wasn’t expected. Not if there was anything to the rumors about that other charred body in the ruins. But this was no place to ask about that, of course, and now there was no time to ask about anything. Behind Nydia Cornish, there was movement in the hall. Tod Graham appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, there you are, Miss Bancroft. You’ve met Mrs. Cornish, I see. Shall we go up now? The others are waiting.”
The others were waiting. Lisa was relieved. The meeting with Nydia Cornish had been too sudden, too unexpected. One really needed time to prepare for such a thing. She followed the woman up the stairs, grateful that Tod had taken Nydia’s arm instead of her own. Stairs were difficult even with a walking stick. She didn’t want anyone to notice or to help. At the top of the stairs, Tod ushered them into the board room. Attentive Tod. Servile Tod. Lisa recalled his remarks about handling Nydia and restrained a smile. Nydia Cornish seemed to be doing quite well without handling.
“Good morning, Nydia. How well you look this morning! Now that you’ve arrived we can really get the show on the road.”
Tod Graham and Stanley Watts, the little moon-faced banker Lisa had met when she opened an account at the Merchant’s Bank, were vying for honors in solicitation when Lisa walked into the board room. It might have been a homey study before that framed card was placed on the downstairs mantel many years ago. Again the windows faced the street, appropriately draped, but a long mahogany table took the place of display cases, and about it were set a number of high-backed chairs. Nydia went to the head of the table immediately. Seated, she might have been a monarch holding court. At the opposite end of the long table was a chair reserved for Tod, and next to him the mousy little woman from the entry desk, a Miss Pratt, who had now acquired a pair of tortoise-rimmed glasses and a secretarial notebook.
And then the introductions:
“Miss Bancroft—Mr. Watts. But you’ve met, of course. Miss Bancroft—Miss Oberon, head of the music department at Bellville High School.”
Miss Oberon smiled nervously. Miss Oberon would do everything nervously. She was tall, thin, and taut of face and manner. Lisa wasn’t sure, but it seemed that her eyes were slightly crossed. That might have come from trying to watch all sections of a glee club at once. She read novels, too. Lisa could tell by the way her limp fingers trembled when they touched hands.
“Miss Bancroft—Professor Dawes.”
The professor’s eyes smiled back at Lisa. He wasn’t timid this morning. He wasn’t intruding on a lady at tea.
“We’ve met, too,” he said, “but it’s a pleasure to meet again, and so soon.”
“I was invited,” Lisa observed.
“By our distinguished chairman, of course.”
“Of course.”
Now the professor’s eyes twinkled. It was a private joke. Plant the seed of curiosity and ‘most anything can happen—even a new member of the award committee.
“And we mustn’t forget Dr. Hazlitt.”
Lisa had forgotten. The name had scant remembrance—Tod had barely mentioned it that day at the house. She turned to acknowledge the introduction, still smiling from the private joke, but now the smile seemed out of place. Dr. Hazlitt. The face was old and weary, so weary that it seemed he must surely have been up all night with an ailing patient. His shoulders drooped, his graying head thrust forward as if the weight of it was too great for his neck to bear, and the fingers of one blue-veined hand picked nervously at the watch chain across his vest. The Dr. Hazlitts of the world always wore vests, but they didn’t always look so vague.
“Bancroft?” his tired voice echoed. “The name sounds familiar. Didn’t you once have people in Bellville, Miss Bancroft?”
There was laughter, naturally, but the laughter only seemed to puzzle the doctor more.
“You’ll have to excuse Reid,” Tod remarked. “He’s probably unaware of any new fiction since Moby Dick. But I’m sure none of us have come here for any personal aggrandizement. This festival is serious business. It’s serious to Bellville, and to the world of music …”
Tod was making a speech. He hadn’t prepared one, of course; he was just making it because making speeches came natural to him. Lisa tried to follow what he was saying, but there were more interesting things to do. A table full of people to be appraised and catalogued. A dowager queen to be watched. An aging physician whose fingers were still working at that watch chain. Fingering time, doctor? Another appointment on your mind, or merely clinging to something you no longer want but have possessed so long you’re reluctant to let go? And all the time the gnawing remembrance of why she had come to this house, of whose name was on that card on the mantel.
“… and so, with the expenditure of just a few thousand dollars, we can seat half again as many people at the athletic field and make this year’s festival the greatest in the history of the Cornish Award!”
Tod drove home a point with vigor. It was impossible for the mind to escape.
“A few thousand?” Stanley Watts protested. “Just how many constitute a few thousand, Mr. Chairman?”
“There’s a young man outside who can give us the complete story,” Tod replied.
“Well, I’m against it! What if it rains? What if we go to all this extra expense and have to hold the affair in the auditorium after all?”
The banker looked about the table for reassurance. It seemed to Lisa that he had a point, but Tod didn’t allow time for a response.
“Rain the entire week, Stanley?” he asked. “You must be expecting a deluge.”
Miss Pratt tittered; Miss Oberon almost smiled. Tod really didn’t need the encouragement.
“And we have to take chances, Stanley. Think of the sunny side. What if it doesn’t rain? Accommodations for an extra five thousand spectators will return our investment ten times over, not to mention what it will do for local business. And we’ll have those extras, too. We turned them away last year. What I’m saying is reasonable, isn’t it, Mrs. Cornish? You can see my point, can’t you?”
Handling Nydia. Lisa enjoyed seeing the man in action. She enjoyed seeing the way every eye turned toward the head of the table, her own included, like so many pilgrims come to consult the oracle. And the oracle sat like a dark-robed queen, her thin, gloved hands stroking the catch of a voluminous handbag. It was an old bag, old and very expensive; but the gloves, Lisa noted, quite apropos of nothing, had a rent seam on one finger.
Then the oracle answered.
“Let the young man come in.”
“But, Nydia,” Watts protested.
“Let him come in, Tod!”
Ruth Graham was right. There was nothing honorary about Nydia Cornish’s position on the committee. Tod went to the door and came back a moment later with a tall, good-looking young man whose ruddy face was familiar with the sun and whose brown hands, although they held a roll of blueprints at the moment, looked as if they might be familiar with a hammer and saw.
“Mr. Joel Warren, of the Cushing Construction Company,” Tod explained. “Mr. Warren, suppose you take over from here.”
Lisa looked at Curran Dawes. He nodded. “My nephew,” he whispered.
&n
bsp; “A fine-looking boy,” Lisa murmured.
“I think so.”
“Does she know?”
Joel Warren was already into his explanation of the blueprints and accompanying cost sheets. The question could mean only one thing. Lisa, oblivious of Joel, was staring at the head of the table.
“About Joel and Marta?” the professor asked. “Really, Miss Bancroft, I can’t imagine anything happening in or around Bellville that Nydia Cornish doesn’t know.”
“And she approves?”
“Is there any reason why she shouldn’t?”
It was the wrong question asked in the wrong way. The professor was still the doting “parent,” and Lisa couldn’t answer him at all. It had something to do with the contrast between those workman’s hands and the prestige of that old mansion high on the top of The Bluffs. But Nydia seemed cordial enough to young Warren. She leaned forward, listening intently to his words. Occasionally she asked a question, brief and pertinent. Lisa abandoned her whispered conversation with the professor.
“I still say it’s too much of a gamble,” Watts persisted. “All of those extra bleachers out at the athletic field may just go empty.”
“With Sir Anthony Sutton conducting the orchestra?” Tod asked.
“Sir Anthony! That’s another thing I don’t like. Why did we have to send all the way to London for a conductor this year? What’s the matter with the way we’ve been doing things for the past eight years? The memorial fund isn’t a bottomless pit, you know.”
“Hear, hear,” the professor murmured in Lisa’s ear. “Good old Stanley. He must be in charge of pay schedules for the high-school staff.”
“Well, now I think—”
Miss Oberon began to speak, then stopped as if too surprised by the sound of her own voice to remember what came next. It wasn’t important anyway. Nydia Cornish had made up her mind.
“Young man,” she said, “is there time enough to complete the construction of these additional facilities before the festival begins?”
Joel Warren smiled. It was a very nice smile, Lisa thought.
“Plenty of time, Mrs. Cornish. I’ve been over the athletic grounds myself, and I’ll supervise this job personally if my company gets the contract.”
The assurance seemed to please Nydia. She didn’t return the smile, but she gave no evidence of any doubt or lack of confidence in Joel Warren. If she disapproved his courtship of Marta her attitude was a masterpiece of deception. She nodded and then fell silent for a few seconds. When she spoke again her head rose high enough so that everyone at the table could see all of the face beneath the wide-brimmed hat.
“As you all know,” she said, looking at no one in particular, “I founded this award as a memorial to my husband who perished so tragically seventeen years ago. I wanted to perpetuate his name in a manner fitting his genius by affording encouragement and reward to young musical talent. To you, Mr. Graham, this may be a commercial boon to Bellville, but to me it is still a solemn tribute to my late husband.”
Tod flushed. “But, of course, Mrs. Cornish. That’s why—”
“That is why,” Nydia continued, deliberately taking the words away from him, “I have always cooperated with every effort to make the festival a greater and richer experience for everybody concerned. I feel that Martin would approve. He was not a man to shut out any appreciative ear.”
“Exactly—” Tod began.
“And so I suggest we put this matter to a vote, Mr. Graham.”
“But the fund—” Stanley Watts protested.
“Immediately,” Nydia added. “It’s frightfully stuffy in this room.”
This was no request; it was a command. A momentary silence, and then Tod Graham, obviously much relieved at this unexpected turn of events, placed a motion before the board to authorize the required expenditure. Lisa declined to vote, protesting too little familiarity with the situation; but she did observe with interest the votes of the other members. Miss Oberon’s barely audible “aye”; Stanley Watts’ reluctant “Oh, all right, if Nydia insists”; Dr. Hazlitt’s hesitation.
“Dr. Hazlitt.”
Miss Pratt, now cast as roll caller, had to repeat the name twice before the doctor’s bowed head rose to attention.
“Your vote, Dr. Hazlitt?”
For a moment Lisa expected him to ask what the vote was about; then he glanced at Nydia like a forgetful actor seeking the prompter’s box.
“Aye,” he whispered, and lowered his eyes again.
“Aye,” the professor said carelessly, as if the entire procedure bored him.
“Aye,” said Nydia Cornish, and it was done.
Joel Warren looked enormously pleased, almost as pleased as Tod Graham. He rolled up the blueprints and shook hands with Tod. The meeting was breaking up. As Nydia Cornish made her stately way from the head of the table back to the door, Joel addressed her, too.
“And thank you, Mrs. Cornish,” he said. “I’ll get the job started immediately.”
The woman paused quite close to Lisa. There was a fragrance about her, something spicy and expensive. And old. Strong with age. She’s only fifty-five, Lisa thought. She seems much older.
“I’m counting on you, Joel,” she said.
Joel. They were friends, then. You’re a snob, Lisa Bancroft.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Joel answered. “I’m going to be out there on the job every day pushing things along. After all, this is a very special festival.”
He smiled again, that very nice smile, and Nydia Cornish nodded. “Quite special,” she agreed.
“I can understand your feelings,” Lisa cut in. “I’ve taken Masterson House, you know. I walked out one night and heard Marta working on her concerto. It’s lovely.”
Perhaps it was rude to enter a conversation uninvited, but not that rude! The stare with which Nydia Cornish now fixed Lisa did much to lower the temperature of a stuffy room.
“You heard—?” she echoed.
“Why, yes. I walked down to the old studio ruins. It was quite still, and I could hear the piano distinctly. An inspired theme, Mrs. Cornish. You must be quite proud of your daughter.”
This time Lisa returned the stare. It was Nydia who looked away first.
“You must be mistaken, Miss Bancroft. Marta hasn’t worked at her music for a week. She’s having one of her stubborn spells. Perhaps now—” and here the impossible happened: Nydia smiled, briefly, at Joel Warren—”she may resume work. Speak to her, Joel.”
“I sure will!” Joel said.
“Splendid. Now, I’m sure you can all manage without me. Tod, will you see me to my car?”
They were all so happy now. Tod was at Nydia’s side in an instant, grinning like a schoolboy who’s just scored for dear old alma mater. “Don’t go away, Stanley,” he called over his shoulder. “I want to go over some other figures with you. We want to get this year’s affair off with a bang!”
All so very happy until Professor Dawes, with a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth, pushed back his chair and said,
“By all means, Tod. But not, let us hope, with the same kind of ‘bang’ that concluded last year’s affair.”
CHAPTER 6
There was nothing quite so frustrating as being a stranger in Bellville. Unfinished conversations seemed to be a civic pastime. To everyone else in the room, Professor Dawes’s words had meaning, unpleasant meaning if one judged by the stricken expressions on seven faces; but nobody bothered to explain to the uninitiated, and it certainly wasn’t the moment to ask. As a conversation stopper, the professor was even more adept than Nydia Cornish. Lisa tried to catch his eye. They might at least meet outside where he could make some kind of explanation. But the professor hadn’t lost his sense of timing. He was still smiling faintly as he brushed past Mrs. Cornish and took his leave—but not before Joel Warren, his face flushed with anger, had given his uncle a most eloquent view of his back.
And then the awkward moment broke. Tod said something
insignificant, which Lisa failed to catch; Miss Pratt tittered appreciatively, and Nydia Cornish, who of the entire group had not quite lost her poise, followed through with her announced departure. It was a signal for general dismissal, but now the questions piled up in Lisa’s mind. What had concluded last year’s festival? Where could she get the answer? The professor had already left the building by the time she reached the stairway. An infuriating man with his half-told tales! Slowly, Lisa began the descent. This was the only action that really troubled her, getting downstairs. It was tedious and unsightly. People who never noticed her limp were made aware of it on staircases. At the bottom of the stairs she paused to catch her breath and collect her wits. It had been a bewildering morning.
And what was that other thing nagging at her mind, a thing momentarily forgotten in the aftereffect of the professor’s parting remark? “You must be mistaken, Miss Bancroft. Marta hasn’t worked at her music for a week.” But how could she be mistaken? The haunting theme she’d heard down by the old studio ruins couldn’t have been imagination. Carrie had heard it, too. Mistaken?
“May I drop you somewhere, Miss Bancroft?”
Lisa turned about, annoyance on her face. Dr. Hazlitt had followed her down the stairs. Dr. Hazlitt with his professional mind and diagnostic eyes. He couldn’t have helped but notice her limp on the stairway. There would be questions to answer, and Lisa was in no mood for questions.
“Thank you,” she said, “but my secretary will be here for me shortly.”
He didn’t seem to hear. He stood there staring at her with those sleepy eyes that, now that she noticed, didn’t seem so sleepy after all. He still waited. She might have to repeat—
And then the head that hung so wearily between his shoulders shook thoughtfully.
Crime is Murder Page 5