by Andre Norton
“Is the child seriously ill?”
“A bad case of bronchial virus. She should have him in the hospital. If you can influence Mrs. Frimsbee to understand that, you would be doing them both a favor. Hello, Maud.” The maid had materialized like an apparition out of the wall.
“Doctor, can you come to Miss Elizabeth? She's greatly disturbed.”
“As who wouldn't be in this house now!” the doctor exploded. “I'd like to pack her off, too. All this commotion isn't doing that heart of hers any good. Well, let's see what can be done.”
With a feeling of guilt I could not account for, I trailed the other two down the hall. This was repeating something—Aunt Otilda! In her last year she had depended upon me so much that even a necessary shopping trip, demanding only a short absence, was enough to thoroughly upset her for the rest of the day. But I was in no way responsible for Miss Elizabeth.
I could hear Miss Elizabeth's voice—muffled but raised in uncharacteristic argument. Was Mrs. Anne in there? But surely Maud would not have then left her charge. The voice went on and on, seeming to repeat the same words. Then I knew she must be talking to herself, or to shadows she alone saw. My suspicion was confirmed when Maud, sighting me, stepped before the door to bar my way.
“Is there any way I can help?”
“Thank you, no, miss. Miss Elizabeth is wandering-like. We'll see to her.” Maud eyed me warily as if she expected me to try to push by, intrude on her mistress. I nodded and turned away.
However, I was not to find in my room the haven I sought. On the hearth were the ashes of a burned-out fire, some puffed onto the edge of the carpet. Though the bed had been made, missing was that aura of good housekeeping which had been so noticeable before.
At the side window which overlooked the garden, the shade was askew as if someone had had an observation post there. Balanced on the sill was an ashtray containing three crushed-out cigarettes. Someone had stood here, long enough to smoke three cigarettes. Irene? Anne? Leslie?
Angrily I dumped the contents of the tray into a piece of paper, folded that into a tight packet for the wastebasket. I sniffed the air resignedly. Being allergic to smoke, I would have to air out the room or expect a headache. I opened the window.
There was nothing to be seen in the garden. I tried to locate the burial ground and the theater. The line of dark yews walling in the first was all which could be sighted. And only the roof of the latter could be marked. Had the watcher here been spying on the police activity of the morning?
I shivered with more than the chill of the open window. Had that watcher been regretting a ruined plan?
It had been a recklessly daring plan—spoiled by Anne's insistence upon the coffin being opened. Therefore, Anne herself could not have been responsible for the substitution. As if she could have had anything to do with the murder of her own son!
I closed the window, dropped into the wing chair by the fireplace and tried to think. Other things—mainly memories—kept getting in the way.
We are molded by our environment in childhood. If nothing forces us to break those early patterns, we continue our lives within their limits. In basic matters I could only judge the motives and actions of others by those standards drilled into me. But because my training would not allow this or that derivation from the rules, it did not mean others were so monitored.
Actions which appeared to me without sensible motivation might be entirely necessary to those involved. How could I judge anyone under this roof? Not by my standards of conduct anyway.
I had come to know—without the strength to alter them—that some of my rules were awry in this modern world. This led me to deceive myself concerning the actions of others. During the past few hours the thin shell, resulting from years of repression and self-discipline, had cracked, leaving me afraid and defenseless.
There was no escape from seeing Mark again, save flight for a second time. That was out of the question. I must reconstruct my armor. My fingers twisted together until I was dimly aware of pain. I must not let my thinking always circle back to Mark! That door was closed—must be kept so.
Not Mark—but murder. Only, that violent act seemed unreal, having little to do with me. Murder was something which happened in books or you read about with distaste in the newspapers. It did not engulf the ordinary people one meets and talks with, occur in a house in which one actually lives!
Irene, Anne, Leslie—I knew only what I had gained from surface impressions. By all the rules of justice I must make no assumptions.
Irene had good reason to hate Emma Horvath. But what possible reason could move her to kill a long-missing brother-in-law? If a woman had been connected with this crime, she must have a male confederate. Otherwise the exchange of bodies would have been impossible. Irene was small, giving no impression of strength. Her mother-in-law was even less robust.
It would be easy to nominate Leslie to head the list of suspects. She represented all I disliked in my own sex. Only there was no possible motive, no link with Roderick. If it had not been for those cigarettes—
Pain stabbed above my eyes. Either I had not aired the room long enough, or my nerves were attacking. I hunted out the tablets which would stop the headache, but I needed water to wash them down.
Which meant descent to the kitchen. I found the cook was not alone, though she occupied her rocking chair, staring out of the window with the air of one divorcing herself from the activity behind her. The reason for her withdrawal was at the stove, fussing with a small saucepan.
Anne Frimsbee had again applied the amount of makeup she had worn on her arrival, but not to such lacquered results. She frowned with irritation as she twisted the pan back and forth. But, to my surprise, she gave me a sourish smile.
“Some gruel for Stuart—” She moved the saucepan an inch to the right. “When Charles was small he thought only I could make gruel. He used to have these same heavy colds.” She shook her head, but this show of maternal concern did not fit her. The picture of an anxious grandmother brewing a potion for her grandson was not really in focus.
“A cup of tea.” She abandoned the gruel and spoke to me. “A cup of tea is so refreshing, don't you agree, Miss Jansen? Will you join me in having one?”
I could not refuse, though neither Mrs. Frimsbee's fussing, not the brooding Reena, made me want to stay in the kitchen.
Anne Frimsbee did not consult the silent presence in the bay window, but proceeded to search through cupboards until she lined up cups and saucers, a tea kettle, a box of tea bags, and had put water on to boil. Her exploration of a breadbox led to the appearance of some crumbling odds and ends of sweet rolls, and a snort from Reena, which Anne deliberately ignored, as she assembled all her finds on a tray.
“We can go into the breakfast room. I'll just wait until the water boils—”
I carried the tray. The room had an air of neglect I could not associate with Miss Elizabeth's house. Rumpled and strewn with crumbs, the tablecloth had not been changed. I set down the tray and went to look out to the garden.
“Very dreary now,” Anne commented as she hurried in. “But in summer it is really quite pleasant. My sister is an enthusiastic gardener, and she carried out Father's plan of an Austen garden in great detail.”
“An Austen garden?”
“An arrangement of all the flowers and shrubs which would have been in Jane Austen's own garden. Of course, lately Elizabeth has not had the time to care for it properly. Most of the bushes should have been pruned, and the wisteria down at the arbor is quite out of control. But I must admit that the delphiniums made a pure wall of color last year. Very noticeable. A photographer came from some garden magazine to take a picture.”
“I never heard of an Austen garden before.”
“Oh, Father's interests spread beyond just Miss Austen's works. That was what he insisted we call her— ‘Miss Austen.’ He said she would have been appalled to know that ‘Jane’ was familiarly used by strangers. Father always believed that Aus
tin and Austen had a common beginning and we could claim kin. The money he spent on genealogical research trying to prove that!” Anne Frimsbee came back to the table. “Father's enthusiasms ran very deep, and were not confined to the books. There was the year he concentrated on the theater. That was a very gay time. They presented Pride and Prejudice and were in rehearsal for Persuasion—” She paused to pour hot water into a flowered cup with care, drop in a tea bag. “I was disappointed when it was not given.”
“Why wasn't it?”
“We were lacking a Captain Wentworth on opening night.” Anne's lips set under their coating of paint. She might have been one of Aunt Otilda's generation deploring a moral lapse. “My sister Elinor—of course she had always been too restricted, Father had some very old-fashioned ideas about what was becoming for a daughter—and Elinor, poor thing, never knew how to handle Father. He could be most charming when one approached him properly. Elinor was such an intense girl—I think she got on Father's nerves—demanding, mind you demanding—to be sent to college and the like. Father was extremely upset.
“Well, Elinor eloped with the young actor who was to play Captain Wentworth. He was very handsome and in that uniform—”
Her spat of reminiscence came to an abrupt end. Was it that uniform in which Roderick had been found? I glanced up and caught a sly, measuring look, veiled in the instant her eyes met mine. Why was all this family history being poured out with the tea?
“Naturally Father was furious and we never heard from Elinor again,” she swept on, “It was very sad and upsetting. Father was more strict with all of us after that. He closed the theater at once, and everything was put away. Though the play had been quite well received, written up in newspapers and magazines.”
She was ignoring that the theater must have been used by Roderick for a shelter. By her present attitude, one might believe that Roderick Frimsbee had never existed. Was this her escape from unpleasant fact?
“I think that it was Elinor's elopement which made Father really eccentric. He became quite a recluse before his death. Only Preston Donner saw him during the whole year before he died. Even Elizabeth had to talk to him through the door. And he cared less and less for the family. It was his wish to establish the Austin Library as a gift to the university. He admired Emma's business sense—she was like him in some ways. She always knew just what she wanted and went after it. Money does make a vast difference in one's view of life. Don't you agree, Miss Jansen?”
I swallowed a bite of stale bun to answer.
“Never having had very much that I did not earn, I can't pretend to be an authority on the subject.”
“Yes, and a government pension doesn't lead to expanded ideas either.” Her statement was acid. “Emma married Alexis Horvath when she was eighteen. But she didn't get what she expected, not for quite a while. Alexis had old-fashioned ideas about women, and he held the purse strings—tight. But Emma worked out her own arrangements after a bit and she was quite comfortable. She had stores charge things she didn't buy, and collected the money after Alexis paid the bills. I don't think he ever discovered she was playing the market. Emma was one of the few people who sold out before the Twenty-Nine Crash. She seemed to have a sixth sense about money. Of course, she was only left life interest in the Hovarth estate.
“Hanno will get that now. He is the only son of Alexis’ younger brother. But there's Emma's own money, and Charles always was her favorite.” Anne was foreseeing a rosy future.
But what, I mused, about the recent break between Irene and Miss Emma? The will was an old one, Mark had said. Emma Horvath might just have left a more recent one.
“Yes, Charles was always her favorite,” Anne repeated happily. “Though she was always close-mouthed, her personal estate must be more than comfortable. Father came to rely on her judgment in financial matters. He made her the major trustee of the library fund.”
“Did she buy much for that?” Perhaps Anne Frims-bee might have heard a rumor about a manuscript
“Nothing so far. Though Emma was very mysterious just before she had her accident. She hinted about some unusual business deal. I've been in Forida with my mother-in-law—she's the widow of Admiral Quinton Frimsbee, you know, a sweet woman. Invited me to spend the winter with her. Then these old friends of hers took a place in the Bahamas and asked her over. She thought it was such a wonderful chance to see her daughter—Lucile married a British officer during the war and he's on some kind of official business there. I offered to stay and keep the cottage open, but Angela wouldn't hear of it, said she didn't expect me to assume such responsibility. Though it really wouldn't have been any trouble at all—and I do feel these damp Maryland winters so much. But Angela's quite a decisive person—rather like Emma.”
And you hate her insides, I deduced, just as you must have hated Emma. That poisonously sweet tone gives it away.
Spite was strong in Anne Frimsbee. It dripped in corrosive acid from her speech, shone out of her heavily madeup eyes, deepened the brackets about her mouth. No wonder Mrs. Admiral Frimsbee had gone off to the Bahamas after some weeks of her dear daughter-in-law's company.
I bet you make Irene jump through hoops, too, I added silently as I gulped a last mouthful of tea, anxious to get away. But I was not to escape so easily, for the door to the hall opened and Leslie Lowndes came in, flying flags of anger in her hot eyes and flushed cheeks.
“I want to know,” she demanded, “just what has gone on here. Why should that stupid detective come to my office for a second time and order me back here with him? What is the matter? Who's dead now?”
There was a crash of china. From the pieces of Anne's cup, a puddle of tea spread over the carpet. Seeing the white and naked terror in her face, I knew that all the babble of the last half-hour had been only a defense. Mrs. Frimsbee, a badly shaken woman, sat staring at Leslie as if the other had thrown a snake onto the table.
“Nothing has happened as far as we know,” I answered.
Leslie sat down and took out a cigarette case. With quick, nervous fingers she chose one and lit it, narrowing her eyes and fanning the smoke away from her face.
“Something must have blown up. A neutron bomb, by the way the police are acting. I think we are in for another session of Truth or Consequences. Odd you haven't heard anything, though—”
Or have you? Her eyes accused us both. Anne Frimsbee was mopping at the tea with a wad of Kleenex. I edged back from the trails of cigarette smoke.
“I'm getting very tired of all this,” Leslie continued crisply.
“But nothing has happened, nothing at all!” Anne's voice was shrill. I thought she might be close to tears and hysteria. “Why don't they let us alone? It isn't fair—it isn't! I'm not going to answer any more questions!” She threw the sodden paper wad onto the tea tray and stood up. “I'm going to my room,” she announced, “and I'm not coming down here again—to talk to the police or anyone else!”
She scuttled out. Leslie laughed. “A neat trick if she can pull it off. The police have been handling the family carefully so far. This may be the day when the gloves will come off. Roderick was a thoroughly bad hat. None of them are able to deny that—nor pretend that he just doesn't exist—which they would like to.”
She sounded so emphatic that I asked without thinking, “Did you know him?” I expected a negative reply, but, to my surprise, Leslie nodded.
“Yes. Though I had really forgotten about him—until they showed me the body. I met him once in Washington—before he skipped overseas. It was at one of those parties where no one seems to know the hostess and nearly everybody drifts in with a friend or two. Shortly after that, he got tagged for one of his deals. And were they deals! That will all be dragged up now that he's dead—in this way. I feel sorry for Miss Elizabeth—she's had enough to worry her. Anne and the rest can take their chances—but she's borne the brunt of all the past troubles.”
“Any disgrace will hit her hard.”
Leslie shrugged. “Sure. But th
ere's nothing to be done about it. Lots of old families produce a rotten branch or two on the family tree. The Austins aren't unique in that. Well, here's my faithful boy in blue. Which one to the torture chamber this time?”
Sergeant Blake stood in the doorway. But it was to me he beckoned. Bewildered and a little apprehensive, I followed him to the library. Really, I thought, Lieutenant Daniels ought to begin paying Miss Elizabeth rent for the use of the room. But Daniels was not alone. Mark sat there also, a very grim line about his mouth.
He, rather than Daniels, spoke first
“This goes deeper than we thought, Erica. Mrs. Horvath was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” I echoed.
“Yes.” Daniels pushed towards me a tin box, patterned in a blue and gold pseudo-Oriental design. “Have you ever seen this before?”
10
Without thinking, I put out my hand, but, before my fingers closed on the box, I hesitated. There were no objections, so I picked it up.
“I have one like this at home, only it is red and gold. It was a gift container for a special brand of tea. They are not uncommon. Especially around holiday time.”
“This one had candied ginger in it,” Daniels said. Then he continued. “Have you seen one like it here?”
I shook my head. “I have only been in the kitchen twice. I have never looked in the cupboards, and the tea I saw this afternoon was in bags. No ginger—”
“But,” Mark said, “isn't candied ginger a confection? Would it be used in cooking?”
Now I had the authority of the better informed. “Ginger is used in cooking. It has to be grated or shredded for a garnish on icing—sliced thin and used in the tea instead of lemon. People also eat it like candy, though it is pretty hot.”
“Hmm—” The lieutenant looked as if I had provided him with new ideas. “Then you might find it in any kitchen?”
“I think so, if the cook was imaginative.”
“How long does it keep, once the tin is opened?” was Mark's next question.