by Andre Norton
“Mrs. Cantrell had served cocktails—”
At that remark I came close to losing my temper. The implication made me bristle. Borrowing that frigid tone Aunt Otilda had cultivated for her own use, I answered frostily:
“I accepted one small glass of sherry, of which I had about two sips. It happens I dislike the taste of most drinks and do not take them.”
He eyed me as if he would like to get inside my bead and sort out my thoughts and memories to his own advantage.
“Who suggested that you visit Miss Austin right then? Did you or Mr. Donner insist upon it?”
“He did. I think he was eager for Miss Austin to rent the room I now have. I have been told that the upkeep of this house is a worry to her, and she depends very much on her paying guests.”
“And you never met this helpful Mr. Donner before, either?”
“No. The only person I knew before Saturday night was Mrs. Cantrell. I was introduced to her through my publisher some time ago. We met by chance at the library here, where we are both doing research. She invited me for Saturday night.” I made it simple and terse, but I was thinking fast. I could see his side of it—why had I been so quick to follow Preston Donner’s suggestion? I remembered my uneasiness at the time—and now I could not really understand how I had been so swept along.
“Now give me your version of what happened here this afternoon.” He changed the subject.
I swallowed a sigh of relief. At least he no longer picked at motives which, I had to admit myself, looked and sounded odd. Again I confined myself to what I hoped was a reasonably accurate account of the fantastic scene—beginning with that moment when Mrs. Anne Frimsbee had come into Miss Elizabeth’s room and proceeding to the time when Hanno Horvath had carried Miss Austin back to her chamber. I omitted my own suspicion that Miss Elizabeth had known what was going to be disclosed when the coffin was opened. After all, that was only conjecture on my part.
“I then stayed with Miss Austin until the doctor arrived. When I left her room, I was told to wait down here.”
“Interesting” was his comment. Then he dismissed me and I went back to my own room.
I was hungry. Unfortunately my metabolism is such that if I did not heed the warning of hunger, I would end with a bad headache. Dare I, under the circumstances, invade the kitchen and ask Reena for a snack? As propriety and hunger struggled, I watched through my window the coming and going of the police. A knot of spectators, in spite of the nasty weather, had gathered by the gate, watching the house as if they expected flames to come shooting from the roof.
Even if we were free to go, I did not want to face that crowd. Then I considered going to Theodosia. Did she even know what had happened?
Maud—perhaps it would be better to brave Maud instead of Reena. If Miss Elizabeth was asleep, maybe Maud would be willing to let me know the possibility of food. As I went into the hall, I ran into Leslie the second time.
Her face was tired, shadowed. For once she looked vulnerable. She gave me an uncertain smile and became a warmer and more friendly person.
“I’m completely done in,” she reported. “And I think they are not going to let us out of the madhouse for dinner.”
“I don’t think you’d want to go. There’s a crowd at the street gate.”
“Oh, lord. No doubt complete with reporters.” Leslie’s shoulders sagged a fraction. “The press—what a field day they’ll have with this! It’s a story with everything as far as they are concerned. All right, so we’re in a stage of siege. Are you game to tackle Reena and see what we can do?”
“I thought of asking Maud.”
“And a bright thought that is. Reena can be a handful. Where is Maud, in with Miss Elizabeth? By the way, how is Miss Elizabeth?”
“The doctor gave her a sedative. The shock was bad for her.”
“I can imagine! After all, it must have been one for everybody—”
“Except,” I commented, “the one responsible.”
Leslie opened her door and tossed her coat on the bed.
“Yes. It looks as if someone was very desperate for a cover-up—or else has a devilish sense of humor—or both.” She went to the mirror above the dressing table. As she spoke, she leaned forward to study her reflection, not in admiration, but critically, as she might study some tool she had a use for. But she did not reach for any of the boxes and jars in wide array at hand. Rather, she turned away again.
“Let’s see Maud and then tackle Reena if we have to. I take it Anne and Irene haven’t appeared yet?”
I had no intention of describing the scene in the parlor between Anne Frimsbee and her daughter-in-law. “No.”
“They have Preston in for questioning, and Hanno’s waiting. That makes four of us, at least. Well—on to the kitchen!”
I was perfectly willing to allow her the initiative, and so listened as she talked to a very unhelpful Maud through a crack of opening at Miss Elizabeth’s door.
“That’s that,” she said at last. “Maud is sticking by her post. We’ll have to face Reena on our own. We’d better do it now.”
The back stairs were dark and only one-half the width of the front, ending in an entryway. Leslie pushed through a swinging door and we were in a large kitchen. Though the big range of an earlier day had been banished for a modern stove, and a large refrigerator and a dishwasher stood against the wall, the room still had a Victorian look.
By a bow window was a cushioned rocker, flanked by a small table. In this chair Reena sat, her impassive face stubbornly turned toward the paved courtyard outside, toward the old stable now converted to a garage. I must admit that had I faced the cook alone, I would have retreated in confusion. Not so Leslie. Whatever demands her job might make, a gift of handling the stubborn must have been part of her training—though at first Reena replied only in grunts, while Leslie took it upon herself to explore cupboards and store shelves. The cook at last heaved her bulk out of the rocker and padded across the floor.
Having stirred Reena to labor, Leslie was wise enough to take the rank of assistant. I hung my jacket on the back of the rocker and cleaned up after them. The savory smells proceeding from Reena’s efforts were payment enough for our efforts. Maud came down to fix a tray for Miss Elizabeth, and she agreed to ask Irene if she wanted a tray for Stuart.
I went back and forth, setting the table in the breakfast room. There were still sounds from the front of the house—masculine voices. Once a door slammed. But no one came to the back quarters. So I was startled by the appearance of Preston Donner, who put out a hand to halt me.
“How is Miss Elizabeth?”
I repeated my report of the doctor and of Maud’s attendance.
“Good, good!” He turned to look out of the window, and I guessed he was sorting his own thoughts, not really interested in any view of the dreary dusk.
Leslie volunteered to summon the Frimsbees. I was not surprised when she reported they refused to come down. The food was good, and I was hungry. Leslie matched me bite for bite. Hanno Horvath chewed each mouthful with machinelike thoroughness. Preston Donner drank coffee, played with a couple of spoonfuls of stew he had transferred to his plate. But I thought he actually ate nothing much.
When we took our plates back to the kitchen we found Irene Frimsbee there, pouring milk into a mug. She averted her face as if caught in some embarrassing act, snatched up a tray, and started for the back stairs. If Leslie noticed the darkening bruise on Irene’s cheek, she made no comment.
Once we had tidied up, Leslie seemed to lose all desire for company. She left abruptly, and must have shut herself at once in her room as I did not see her again. Back in my chamber I kicked off my shoes, but did not undress. Settling down in the wing chair near the window, I closed my eyes. I must have slept.
Light flashing in my eyes awakened me. I looked out to see a car coming up the drive. The police again? How long would they stay—and would we have another round of questions?
Pure curiosity, and
nothing else, took me out in the hall. That was as dark as it had been the night before. My slippered feet made no sound as I padded along to the head of the stairs. I had even gone down two steps, though I was still, luckily, out of sight from below, when I froze.
Were my ears playing tricks? Or was this really a part of a singularly realistic dream? I refused to believe that I had correctly identified that voice. With only the instinct for flight left in me, I spun around and headed for my room.
But I never reached the refuge. For down at the other end of the hall, a shadow seemed to detach itself from the wall. It floated without any sound towards the back stairs.
6
That shadowy figure had almost reached the head of the back staircase when there sounded the distant ringing of the phone. With a muffled cry, the half-seen figure clutched at the wall. I heard a bumping sound as if some object had fallen and was rolling from step to step.
The phone ceased—it might have been answered. In the quiet the shadow disappeared down the staircase. I followed, keeping far enough behind, I hoped, not to be seen. Though the stairs were dark, a panel of light shone out of the kitchen into the side entry below. Either Reena had not yet retired, or someone else was there.
Clinging to the rail with one hand, as she stooped to retrieve a flashlight lying on the floor, was Miss Elizabeth. On her head was the veiled toque she had prepared for the funeral, and an old sealskin coat covered her from throat to ankle. She must be planning to go out.
I wondered where Maud could be, as Miss Austin paused before the kitchen door to look in. Her halt there, I was sure, would be brief. I stumbled back up the hall to pull on shoes in frantic haste, dive into my coat. I was still struggling to get an arm into that as I ran back.
Miss Elizabeth was no longer in sight. Out which door? I did not know my way around the kitchen quarters very well. Trying to keep my own descent as noiseless as possible, I hurried down.
Reena’s chair was vacant. The chain was up in place at the back door. So my quarry had not left that way. The side door then—
I tiptoed down the hall, not wanting to attract any attention from those in the front of the house. The sound of that one voice had shaken me badly. Though how and why he had come here—the sensible thing to do would be to arouse help, but somehow I still could not betray Miss Elizabeth, even though it might be for her own good.
Physically, I was sure, she had been incapable of accomplishing the exchange of bodies. But I no longer doubted she had known something about it, and, for her own reasons, had been willing to keep the substitution a secret—willing to allow her nephew to be buried in her sister’s place.
There came a faint click, which could have been that of a door lock eased into place. I must hurry if I was not to lose Miss Elizabeth in the wilds of the garden. The night air was crisp as I edged out through the side door, cold enough to make me wish I had brought a scarf for my head, while a few steps only made plain my folly of tramping here without boots.
A flicker of light drew me on, past a growth of bush which was a screen for the lower story of the house. Here was a walk which must run parallel with that connecting the Horvath property to the Abbey. I glanced back. Except for the partially blocked glow of the kitchen light, the Abbey was dark on this side.
Miss Elizabeth must believe she was free of fear of observation, for her flashlight was on and held steady—its light catching now and then the edge of the veil blowing about her tall figure.
I dropped back. Though she had not looked behind as yet, she might at any moment. The path made an abrupt turn—now I could see a light from the carriage house. If the inhabitants of the Abbey were mostly safely in bed, the Cantrells were keeping much later hours. For a moment I was tempted to go after Theodosia. If I had known Miss Austin’s goal I would have done just that.
A figure came into view on the carriage path, and for a hopeful instant I thought it might be Theodosia. Though why she might be roaming the Abbey garden at this hour—then the other was silhouetted against the distant light and showed itself to be unmistakably masculine.
I had no wish to meet this new lurker in the garden. Two steps took me into cover among the clutches of bushes. But I discovered that, behind that screen, I could still follow the guide of Miss Elizabeth’s flashlight.
The chill of the ground struck up into my feet. It seemed even worse when I scrambled back on the walk again. Icy fingers of wind thrust down into my coat collar. Miss Elizabeth’s flashlight suddenly winked out. I was afraid now, even willing for her to learn I had followed her for the sake of her company. Anything was better than being alone in this dark.
The walk made another abrupt turn, so I was able to avoid by only an inch or so a painful encounter with a wrought-iron bench. Through the bare branches of trees I now caught the beam of a street light.
However, the walk did not end at the bench. There the snow-covered pavement split, one segment curving towards the Horvath estate, the other angling right. The tracks in the half-frozen slush led in the latter direction.
Next came a wall of dense shrubbery, towering higher than my head. There the walk did end, in a small paved area, before an iron gate hung from posts set in the brush. Beyond, the circle of the flashlight jerked from side to side, as if Miss Elizabeth was seeking something on the ground. I tried the gate, it swung open easily without a sound.
Her flashlight swept across a pallid object, which I identified with a shiver. There was no mistaking the purpose of that upright slab of stone. Miss Elizabeth had come to a private graveyard. Now the circle of light flashed up, centered on something Miss Austin held in her other hand.
Though the wind sighed I was able to catch a few of the words she read—their solemn cadence added to my uneasiness. The light wavered once more to the ground, skirting a mound covered by a tarpaulin, as Miss Elizabeth knelt. Her hand came into the path of the light, picked up a clod of earth and let it fall with sullen finality into the dark hole. Borne by some trick of the wind, her voice was unusually distinct and clear.
“—we commend the soul of our dear sister departed, and we commit her body to the ground—”
Miss Elizabeth was reading the burial service above an empty grave prepared for that afternoon’s funeral, which had been so strangely interrupted. She—had she lost her mind?
I edged back until the iron gate pressed against my shoulders. Help—I must get help! Either from the Cantrells’ or the Abbey. With a shaking hand I opened the gate, clinging to its solid support, my head still turned to watch the figure by the grave. What would Miss Elizabeth do—return to the house now? What might happen if she discovered she was being watched?
Thoroughly shaken, I stepped free of the gate and started back along the walk. The Cantrells—those at the Abbey—the police—which? If I went to the Abbey the police would be drawn in. I reached the parting of the paths again, still unable to make up my mind.
The scrape of a foot on the walk startled me. Miss Elizabeth! I wheeled about. Only moments before I had thought of her with sympathy. Now I shrank from meeting her face to face.
I grasped the snow-wet back of the bench, sure that in this dark, if I did not move, I might escape notice. But a moment later there came a shrill cry, a scream so eerie that it almost tore an answering shriek from me.
I heard the grate of metal on stone, the thud of running feet. Shrinking back into the bushes, I watched a dark figure totter by. That must have been Miss Elizabeth, frightened away from her labor of conscience. By what or whom?
At that moment I decided I had had enough, of the Abbey, of all connected with it. As soon as my feet would obey me again I would go to Theodosia. If the Cantrells would not or could not shelter me for the night, they would at least have the charity to let me call a taxi and so reach the inn.
As yet my escape was not possible. I was afraid to venture out of hiding. There remained who or what had so startled Miss Austin into her screaming flight. Or had it been that her nerves had given away
? I bit hard on my underlip, my nails dug into my sweating palms. I tried counting slowly. When I reached a hundred I would move—down to the carriage house.
Then my common sense returned. I could move—it was only a matter of putting one foot before the other. Also, I could hear nothing now but the wind.
Still straining my ears, I crawled from behind the bench. Then the very ordinary sound of a car being driven along the street outside the wall brought matters into reasonable focus. “Ghosts, goblins, things that go bump in the night!” I scorned my panic.
Head up, ashamed of my silly fright, I started on between the overhanging bushes, the path so dark in some places that I had to stretch my hands before me to feel an open way. My imagination was busy. Why, at this particular moment, did my thoughts prod me with a nasty tale by M. R. James, in which a black and tattered Thing scuttled through brush, dogging the path of any who walked in a cursed wood after nightfall?
There was an excellent answer to the Thing—a beam from a street light. As wild and lonesome as the garden might appear, it was, I must remember, in a very ordinary and modern small city. Just a few yards away was a bus stop. Beyond that lights controlled traffic—cars passed—
My hand flew to my mouth. I wavered back into the thorn-studded arms of a shrub, to recoil again, branches tearing at my hair and coat. One whipped my cheek, scoring the skin. But I concentrated on those sounds—footsteps—muffled, but still regular—and behind me. I was being followed!
Finding the path again I plunged forward so violently I slipped and came near to losing my balance. A moment later I was down on my hands and knees. Paying no attention to scraped palms and torn hose, I somehow fought my way up, miserably certain my floudering had betrayed me to my pursuer.
The street lamp I had counted on as a guide was now blotted out. It was not until I crashed against a closed door that I realized I had reached another building. Beneath my frantic fingers, the knob that my groping discovered refused to turn. I was locked out of what might be a refuge.