Snow Shadow

by Andre Norton

  “But it is all so unbelievable,” Theodosia cut in. “If I wrote this into a book, the editor would make me yank it out as being too fantastic for any reader to swallow! I'd like to have Roger Whittleby here right now listening to this. Teach him to shake his head over manuscripts in the future. I wish I didn't have this foul deadline to meet. I’d take the day off and we'd have a good time chewing it over. No.” She must have read the expression on my face. “It hasn't been any fun for you, or for the Austins, has it? I'm being cold-blooded again.” She shot a glance at Gordon.

  “You are.” He struck in at her waspishly. But his wife paid no attention.

  “Perhaps my attitude comes from dealing with murders by and gone. With those you can read the evidence in full, act as a biologist with strange insects to study. Somehow this Abbey affair does not seem real to me.”

  “Over here it doesn't.” I agreed with her. Coming into the carriage house had been walking out of an uncomfortable shadow into the light. “Over there, unfortunately it is. That is why I want to escape today—I need to get back a true perspective.”

  Gordon was glancing impatiently at his watch. But I was not going shopping in Irene's coat, and Theodosia agreed with me, producing a smart tan carcoat in its stead. Gordon stood near the outer door, by now drumming fingers on the edge of a briefcase. I wished I had thought of a taxi. Nor was our exit made any better when we had to wait for the police ambulance to pull out.

  Had they discovered what they had been searching for? What grisly secret had been in the old burial plot?

  “What's Rohmer doing working with the cops? I never heard of him joining up with the police before.”

  I blinked. “Rohmer? I haven't met any Rohmer at the Abbey.” I thought I was entitled to hedge the truth that much. That abrupt scene last night had not been a real meeting. “It was a Lieutenant Daniels who seemed to be in charge—”

  “Mark Rohmer was in the garden last night. And I'd like to know why. This isn't the sort of deal he's usually in on.” When Gordon lapsed into silence, scowling at the windshield before him, I dared to pursue the subject.

  “What does he do?”

  “Oh, he's one of the hush-hush boys from Washington. He may be MI, or something like that. I wonder—” Gordon's scowl lightened a little. “Did they definitely identify that body as Roderick Frimsbee?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Then that may have brought Rohmer in. There were a lot of tales about Frimsbee some time back. Though I always thought he was a pretty small fish on the wrong side of the law. Unless he started moving into the big time lately.”

  “I heard that he had to go abroad to escape some kind of trouble here—”

  “Too true. Drugs—though they could not get the connecting link to be more than suspicion at the time. He did something pretty raw, though the details never came out. I think if he'd stayed to hand he might have landed up in the pen sooner or later. The family can still swing enough weight—through Miss Emma and his mother knowing a few top brass in the Navy—so they got him out on bail. He skipped then, and I think the Austins were relieved in spite of the money loss. Then they said he was dead—maybe they hoped it Yes, Roderick was a bad boy—a real black sheep.” Gordon had regained some of his usual jauntiness. “But he must have outdone himself lately to bring Rohmer in.”

  “Then Mr. Rohmer must be important—” I could not stop, I wanted to know more—to hear all Gordon Cantrell could tell me. But he did not appear to think my interest out of the ordinary.

  “He's a colonel now—but the word is that he deals with strictly top-level cases—things which have to be given the cover-up sometimes when there is a so-called sensitive angle. Yes, he's important. Pretty lone-wolf—I only got the word about him through a contact at the news center. He was pointed out to me there. Well.” Gordon shrugged. “If this is the usual sort of case he handles well probably never know the inside story, close to it as we are. That is going to disappoint Theo.”

  He laughed. I did not like the harsh note in the laughter. It was plain that he was pleased at the thought his wife was going to be disappointed in something even so minor.

  “I think,” he continued, “I'm going to ask around a little, see what the official story is about Rohmer's being here. Rumors circulate, they always do.”

  There were more questions I would have liked to ask, but I knew the folly of pushing. The last thing I wanted was to arouse any interest in Gordon Cantrell, which could be turned in my direction so he would begin to wonder what tie I might have with Colonel Mark Rohmer.

  “If Rohmer comes around asking questions, you had better be careful.”

  I was so startled by that I was afraid I had already betrayed too much interest.

  “Why—why should I have anything to hide?”

  “He's a fair-haired boy for some security department. And you've certainly heard what's gone on in that direction in the past.”

  I regained my composure. “You flatter me by thinking I have any deep, dark secrets to hide. And there is no reason why he would be at all interested in me. I had no contact at all with the Austins before last Saturday. And as soon as I can move I'll have no contact now either.”

  But Gordon might not have heard me. “I'd sure like to know just what he's after at the Abbey.” His voice plainly held an interrogative note.

  Did Gordon expect me to provide him with reports of detection in progress? I could hardly accept that But even as I speculated, his manner underwent a change, before my eyes he became another person. For the first time since our introduction I must be seeing the Gordon Cantrell Theodosia had seen when she married him. And, if the turning on of that charm had not been so calculated, I might have been moved by it Once he must have played that role with conviction. Now his action creaked a little.

  My first disgust became amusement. I relaxed to enjoy the show. He did not mention Mark again, but his reminder that tomorrow was Saturday, and why didn't I drop in in the evening, had the wrong touch. I thanked him for the lift, without agreeing or disagreeing with his invitation, as I got out of the car, took a deep breath of winter air, which, though tainted with exhaust fumes, was invigorating.

  Holly wreaths hung in the windows; signs reminded one there remained just so many more days for Christmas shopping. For a moment I was troubled. Christmas is the day which is the hardest for those without families. We are told by psychiatrists and others dealing with our modern emotional ills that it is the season in which depression strikes the deepest for those prone to it, that grayest of ills. While Aunt Otilda's holiday celebrations, if one might term them that, had never been on the lavish side—far from it, indeed—the day had been sedately observed, with duties of cards written and strictly useful “gifts” exchanged. And this year I would not even be among the acquaintances I had had.

  Nonsense—I needed shoes, not holly! I pushed by a bedroom-slipper display in the shop nearest the drugstore where I had dutifully left the prescription, and found a harried salesman. I came out of the shop a little later, rather exhausted.

  There was a row of small specialty shops on a side street—the kind one always finds in a town of wealth, where the unusual and clever tempts a jaded shopper. Ladensville had been first a university town, and then subdivisions of one-of-a-kind suburban homes, of the class to tempt commuters from Washington, spread out over the old fields. The new subdivisions were still spreading, as I had seen when I came in on the bus from Washington on my arrival.

  These shopwindows were showplaces for those luxuries which one of my training never has the courage to buy for herself. But when the holiday spirit strikes, one finds oneself making extravagant purchases for others.

  A set of perfume bottles in the form of chessmen, a dragon pin with ruby eyes—those drew me from one window to the next. I began to feel the buying madness creeping on me. Something sobering was needed—perhaps a bookshop.

  But before I reached the door above which a bookshop sign hung on a bracket, I
had to pass an antique shop. There I paused before the fascinating display. A miniature eighteenth-century silver service was poised on a shelf, behind it a delicate fan of carved ivory and lace—

  Winter street, the cloudy day, vanished as if a worn theater drop had been whisked upward out of sight. I stood now in sunlight, turning about in my fingers a small figure I had just picked up from a table of “white elephants” at a church bazaar, a figure which, to my certain knowledge, was now lying wrapped in an old handkerchief at the bottom of a drawer back in my Canton, New Hampshire, apartment. Yet here and now I saw its duplicate.

  The sight of it jarred my new-found confidence, brought a stab of hurt. I would not think—

  What had been the matter? That tiny spark I had never been wholly able to beat out flamed anew. Had I been so mistaken, in spite of my naivete? Had I indeed been as silly and stupid as I had named myself all these years? Or had I been just a little bit right—that there had been some depth below the surface? If I had only been able to ask that question and received an honest answer—it was not fair that one dared not throw away pride!

  I forced myself to look beyond the figure which brought back memories. There was a snuffbox, a quaint old amethyst ring—its heart-shaped stone encircled by seed pearls. What did they say, in the old days, of the amethyst—that those wearing them could never become intoxicated? I should have had one on my finger five years ago. It was not fair! Though who said that anything in this world had to be fair? Only a child could cry out that when hurt.

  Aunt Otilda had taken me young enough to shape me, make me eternally uncertain of emotion, mistrustful of it. By the time I was old enough to break loose I could not. I was secure only in her pattern—so stunted, warped, I was not a real woman at all—how could I be?

  The wind found its way beneath the collar of Theo-dosia's coat. I shivered. Food—I needed warmth and food, and maybe to get away from this hateful town and humiliating memories which haunted it—and me. As I turned away from the window I bumped into a tall figure a little behind me.

  I looked up without any real surprise. All the hours, the days, behind me had been really leading to this. I had to face matters and face them squarely at long last

  “Hello, Mark.” Somehow I was strong enough to say that, as if we were only very casual acquaintances who had met only a short time ago.

  “Christmas shopping?” He was as casual, and that strengthened me.

  I tucked my package more firmly under my arm. “No—just new shoes—”

  “As a result of your adventure last night?”

  This was like another of my haunting dreams. Our meeting had had no proper beginning and would have no ending. Only when his hand touched my elbow, urging me lightly towards the building at my left, I obeyed. Nor did I find it strange to be in a restaurant, the hostess ushering us to a table.

  Still enmeshed in that dream, I unbuttoned my coat, and answered the question he had asked on the street:

  “Yes, I ruined my shoes last night—”

  “Tell me—” He leaned forward. He was just the same—except for finger-wide strips of gray above his ears. I bit my lip. No! Not again, never again!

  “What did you see in the garden?” he continued. His eyes did not quite reach mine. I forced my mind back to the here and now.

  But I was so caught in that sensation of this being a dream that I lost all caution and told him the truth. “Miss Austin reading the burial service over an open grave. Emma Horvath's body was in that, wasn't it?”

  “Yes.” He picked up the menu and ordered swiftly as a waiter materialized at his elbow. He was remembering—no, it was simply chance, it had to be, that he picked out just those items.

  I made a lengthy business of pulling off my gloves, tucking them into my purse. Anything seemed better than being silent and letting this unsteadiness build up inside me.

  “But how did you come into the case?” I asked quickly.

  “It's a long story.”

  “One you can't tell me!” T was glad to find even so slim a point on which I could begin to erect a new barrier of hostility.

  “One which I am going to tell you here and now” was his reply.

  8

  So that was the real reason for our meeting! I snapped my purse shut on the gloves with a strong, if illogical, feeling of resentment. This was what I thought I had wanted—yet it hurt. No “It's been a long time, how have things been for you?”

  Suppose I asked my own preferred question—"And how is Mrs. Rohmer?” But that was not allowed—by my pride.

  “I know very little about any of this,” I told him. “So I'd be grateful to hear what you have to say.”

  He seemed in no hurry to do that—even after stating so firmly that that was what he wanted.

  “How did you come to be living there?” He shot the question as if hoping to startle some damaging reply out of me.

  Once more I retraced the actions of Saturday night. Was it only last Saturday that I had made my fatal mistake?

  “So you see, I never saw any of them before. Of course I had heard of Dr. Austin's collection. Who in the literary world has not?”

  Mark's dark face was as unreadable as ever, eyes upon me held a kind of contemptuous measurement— or was I being too sensitive and wary? I felt I was being assessed and weighed, and my irritation kindled anew. Nothing would ever break his calm. He was as polished and hard as Leslie Lowndes appeared on first acquaintance. Portrait of a soldier with not a single human chink in his battle armor.

  “How much do you know about the family now?”

  I recited tersely what Theodosia and Preston Donner had told me. Then, piqued by his armor, I added the shocking scene between Anne and Irene at the opening of the coffin. I hesitated for a moment. Miss Elizabeth—should I—

  His level gaze caught and held mine. “That isn't all, is it?”

  I reached for my glass of water, took a sip. That shaky feeling crept over me again. I could not dissemble—he would know—he did know.

  “What happened last night?” He bore down with that demand as if he could reach into my mind and dig loose the thoughts I found hard now to discipline.

  “Mark—”

  “It's Miss Elizabeth, isn't it? Did you follow her?”

  “How did you—did you see her, too?” Something of the weight rolled from me at his words.

  “Yes. She must have known about the substitution near when it occurred, of course. The why she kept quiet is what is important.” He fell silent as our waiter produced salads and a basket of hot rolls.

  I relaxed a little more. “I don't know why, honestly. What is at the bottom of it all, do you know, Mark?”

  “We can guess—a little—enough to start working on. Your informants were right on one heading. Roderick was the Austin black sheep. From all accounts he was one of those egotists who slip easily onto the wrong side of the law because when they want a thing they see no reason why they shouldn't have it Money—women—and if anyone gets hurt in the process that's nothing to people like him.

  “Sometimes they get away with it, staying just inside the law so that they can't be nailed for anything, no matter how many lives they wreck. But sooner or later most of them slide across that barrier they do not think exists—for them. Roderick skipped the bail Mrs. Hor-vath put up to save the family's face. He was reported killed. Instead he was making new contacts and much stronger ones. We had news of him from Interpol— that he was connected—slightly—with another case. He had a tail on him in New York—a week ago he slipped our man and disappeared. But we hoped he might show up here. And you are sure you saw him in the garden Saturday night?”

  “I didn't have more than a quick glimpse, but that uniform coat—I couldn't be wrong about that. Where could he have gotten it?”

  “Out of the wardrobe in the playhouse,” Mark replied absently. He poked at a sliding piece of lettuce. “The outer door had been forced and we found his other clothing there. He must have arranged a me
eting with someone—”

  “Who?”

  For the first time Mark smiled. I looked away hastily. I wanted him to keep to his question-and-answer game, and strictly away from any personalities.

  “That's something we need answered. It's an odd company there in the house. There are the remaining Austin sisters—Miss Elizabeth—who seems to have made such an impression on you. You do like her, don't you? But then you are conditioned to respond to her type. How is Aunt Otilda, by the way?” I heard the mockery he did not try in any way to conceal.

  “She died two years ago. Yes, I like Miss Elizabeth. If she has any secrets, I don't think they are for her own benefit.”

  “I think I am inclined to agree with you there. But she does have a lot to account for. Then there's Mrs. Anne Frimsbee who, I gather, you do not care for—”

  I moved uncomfortably. Had I pressed judgment where my opinions could do the most harm?

  “Only my personal reaction,” I said quickly. “One does take dislikes, sometimes quite without reason. She was terribly shocked and upset in the parlor. I can understand why she did not want anyone to know Roderick's identity. She must have been very badly hurt by him in the past.”

  “But—you don't like her. Mrs. Irene Frimsbee you seem to be uncertain about. Why? She didn't provoke that scene. And since then, according to you, she has effaced herself. Why are you equivocal about her?”

  I flushed and hoped my discomfort was not too apparent. He had read a good deal, perhaps from my tone of voice. Because of his insistence, I was forced to think more of my attitude towards Irene Frimsbee. It was my own hurt which might have awakened my distrust. I would not tell the truth—that I had seen Irene in close conversation at the Humbolt with a man certainly not her husband—and that had recalled too much of my own troubles in the past.

  “I wasn't aware of any bias,” I said flatly. I would stand firm on that.