by Andre Norton
As the two men were walking slowly along Beech Street to James’s apartment, Fredericka was recovering in the sitting room chair of Miss Hartwell’s bookshop. She could still see Roger staring at her, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. But she had behaved like a child. Margie Hartwell would have behaved better.
Margie Hartwell. Poor child, with her miserable secret hiding place in the old greenhouse. No wonder she kept making sudden appearances. No wonder she resented the presence of a stranger in her aunt’s bookshop. But why was her resentment so deep-seated? All week long she had hindered rather than helped Fredericka. She had even left an ugly caricature between the pages of Fredericka’s manuscript. The drawing had been crude but the likeness to herself had been unmistakable. There was no doubt who the artist was, of course, even though Margie had denied all knowledge of it. A tiresome, troublesome teenager but, in the light of today’s discoveries, perhaps more to be pitied than despised.
Peter Mohun pitied her but then Margie behaved better to him. Probably he would also pity Roger and have no sympathy with Fredericka’s fears. But he would have to agree that Margie and Roger both hated Catherine Clay. Still, there was nothing extraordinary in that. No one had loved Catherine, not even James Brewster, unless his attitude toward her in the inn last Sunday had been merely the result of some lovers’ quarrel. But it hadn’t seemed so. No, if what Roger had said was true, Catherine had had little love, even from her own mother.
But these thoughts were getting her nowhere. She looked at her watch and discovered, to her amazement, that it was only a few minutes past four. She got up, went to the desk in the office, and pulled her writing things toward her with a gesture of fierce determination. This time she made some progress but the afternoon grew steadily hotter, and presently she began to nod.
After a brief struggle against sleep, she got up, climbed the stairs slowly and threw herself onto her bed. She fell at once into a heavy sleep, from which she did not waken until the church clock was striking six. She turned over and was coming slowly to consciousness when she became instantly wide awake and aware of the frightening silence. To quiet her nerves and restore her common sense, Fredericka got up quickly and went to the bathroom to throw cold water on her hot face. After this she felt better, but no amount of private bustle could dispel the loneliness of the empty house. “Haunted Bookshop” it is, she thought: altogether too haunted. On a sudden impulse, she decided to change her clothes and go to the inn for supper.
As she started down the front path, the sun was setting behind angry thunderclouds. She scowled up at the sky, and then decided to go back for her raincoat. The house seemed emptier than ever, and she dreaded the thought of returning after dark.
When she walked up the driveway of the Coach and Horses she could hear the hum of voices inside. Goodness, she thought, it’s like a swarm of bees. The whole town must be there. And then she heard herself say out loud: “I hope to goodness it isn’t a party.”
To her amazement, someone behind her answered: “Not a party. It’s only that everyone with any sense takes advantage of the inn’s Sunday night special. It’s a buffet supper, famed far and wide.”
The voice with its slight foreign accent and hissing s’s was familiar and Fredericka turned quickly to find Philippine Sutton close on her heels. “Goodness, I didn’t hear you come up behind me. I must get over this tiresome habit of talking to myself. It comes from living too much alone.”
“I’m sorry if I frightened you. I wear these sandals in the lab and half the time I forget to change them when I take off my white coat. I do apologize. I didn’t realize I was creeping up on you like that.”
“It’s quite all right. And I am glad to see you again.”
It was true. Of all the people at the farm, Philippine was the most approachable and friendly. Mrs. Sutton had seemed to belong to another world, or to be wrapped in a magic mantle that made her all but invisible to ordinary human beings. Perhaps the wretched woman had made this for herself as a protection from the troubles and anxieties of her life. What a strange and difficult family. Peter had told her that Mr. Sutton had died in 1929 or 1930. There were stories about him, too—that he had hanged himself when his financial losses had overwhelmed him. And then Mrs. Sutton had been left with Catherine who had taken to dope and been consumed with self-interest—even cruel, if what Roger said was true. Roger, himself, a misfit in the post-war world—neurotic and half-crazed by his hatred of his sister. Who else? “Mom” Hartwell who had been taken in to do the accounts. Was she just the stupid conventional gossip she seemed, or was she really a far more sinister character? Her daughter Margie—capable of all the worst manifestations of adolescence. All these ill-assorted people had lived together at the Farm—with Philippine who managed them all. It didn’t bear thinking about, she decided, as she followed the neat figure of the French woman into the crowded living room.
Everyone looked up to stare as the two women entered, and Fredericka was once more grateful to Philippine for her sudden appearance and protecting presence. No wonder Roger found her so comforting—perhaps he was in love with her. That would be a further complication to add to the general confusion.
“What do we do now?” Fredericka had suddenly become aware that she had been romancing, and she asked the question with real anxiety.
“The food’s laid out in the dining room. We get what we want and then eat it where we like. The maids bring you coffee. You pay in advance—in the dining room.”
Fredericka followed Philippine into the dining room and then gasped at the array of food spread out on the tables.
“I know, it is tremendous, is it not?” Philippine asked and Fredericka wondered if she had again been guilty of speaking her thoughts out loud.
“Tremendous doesn’t begin to describe it,” Fredericka answered at once. She continued to follow Philippine around, heaping her plate with lobster, cold turkey and ham, salad and rolls. Then she saw with dismay that Philippine had taken only a small slice of turkey and a bit of salad. “Oh dear, I’ve been too greedy,” she said, blushing.
“Nonsense. I expect you haven’t had a Sunday dinner like ours at the Farm. Come battle, murder or sudden death our meals go on—oh, mon Dieu, what do I say…?”
Fredericka put her hand on the woman’s arm and felt it to be trembling. “It must have been awful there today,” she said simply.
Philippine flashed her a look of gratitude and then, as they moved together to the large screened porch at the other side of the living room, Margie approached them.
“Gosh!” she said to Fredericka and then, again, “Gosh! May I sit with you and please will you tell me all about it?” In the excitement of the moment she seemed to have forgotten her former enmity.
Fredericka was completely unprepared for this direct assault, and, to her horror, other townspeople whom she had met at the bazaar and as customers in the bookshop crowded around with anxious questions. Fredericka looked desperately for a protector, but there was no sign of Peter Mohun or Thane Carey; and Philippine had been pushed to the outer rim of the circle that had now closed in around her.
“There really isn’t anything to say,” Fredericka muttered a little wildly. “It’s all been so sudden and so very dreadful. Can’t we—oh, please can’t we, just forget about it tonight?” How could they behave like this?
But Margie persisted and several others continued to support her with urgent questions.
Fredericka felt suddenly faint and the pile of food on her plate sickened her. It was at this moment that Dr. Scott’s pleasant face appeared directly in front of her.
“Margie, I’m surprised at you,” he said, but with more affection than reproof in his voice. “Suppose that you had come home from the bazaar last night to find a dead body in your hammock, would you feel like eating your Sunday night supper if you had to talk about it?”
“Oh!” said Margie, ignoring the subtle reproof. “Oh, so you did find Catherine’s body in the hammock. Gosh!
Oh, I wish I’d been there. And do you remember, Fredericka, how I predicted it at the bazaar? What I don’t understand though, is how she ever got there. And when do you think?”
By now the press around Fredericka was overpowering. The doctor was forced to put up his plump hand and raise his voice so that it could be heard in every corner of the room.
“I want you to understand that we’re not going to hold an inquest here in the inn on a pleasant social Sunday evening. If I hear one more question or remark from any of you, I’ll inject a quick silencing shot without a moment’s hesitation. My black bag’s just outside in the car. Come on, Miss Wing, let’s sit down over in that corner. I want to get some reading advice and I understand that, like dear Lucy, you’re an authority.”
Fredericka longed to put down her laden plate and hug him and, even as it was, she gave him a smile of such heartfelt gratitude that the old man became her friend for life.
At that moment there was a sudden flash of lightning followed immediately by a deep rumble of thunder. It was as though the doctor had been supported by a sign from heaven, and the crowd fell back to let them pass through.
“Sit down here next to me,” he remarked as he found two empty chairs. And then, when they were settled comfortably, he fished in his pocket and handed her a small bottle of pills. “Just in case you may find it hard to sleep. Won’t hurt you. Good for the nerves, in fact, and I don’t know who has a better right to nerves than you do.”
“Oh, thank you. You are kind,” Fredericka said quickly. “But I expect I’ll be all right in a day or two.”
“Let’s hope we all are.” He looked thoughtful and then added, half to himself, “But somehow I can’t believe that we’ll put all this behind us for some time to come.”
“Can’t you? Why not?” Fredericka asked at once.
“I was talking to myself, but since, like the old fool I am, I thought out loud, I must explain. We won’t know the result of the autopsy before Wednesday or Thursday but something tells me that, when we do, it’ll knock the lid right off this town. I may be exaggerating. I may even,” he tried to smile, “be wrong, so let’s forget it. Instead I want you to tell me what you’ve got in the library that’s new and good escape-reading for a hardworking doctor.”
The obvious device worked, and soon Fredericka found herself talking about the latest fiction and nonfiction, then about her job as a librarian and then a great deal about herself—a fact which she was to remember later with some shame.
Philippine came up with a fudge sundae and a large piece of sponge cake which she handed to Fredericka in exchange for her empty plate. Presently she returned with her own, and sat down on the arm of Fredericka’s chair.
“I’ve been listening to you and Doctor Ted, and I’ve got some reading problems too. But I expect you’re too tired tonight.”
She stopped and Fredericka said at once, “Oh, no, I’m not in the least tired. As a matter of fact I broke all my rules and had a nap this afternoon.” Perhaps, after all, she had been wrong about Philippine. Perhaps they were going to have time to be friends. “Do you like murders, too?”
“We can’t seem to get away from them, can we?” Philippine asked quickly. “No—I don’t like to read about them. These stories are so stupid and obvious. But I have to confess I like—how do you call it—?”
“Westerns,” Doctor Ted put in. “I know your weakness because I share it, and Lucy Hartwell told me about you in order to reassure me and, I suspect, encourage me.” He chuckled good-naturedly.
“I’ve got some new ones in, as a matter of fact,” Fredericka said. “Why don’t you both walk back with me and get a supply?”
“Good idea,” the doctor agreed. “The only trouble is that I’ll have to be polite and let Philippine have all the best ones.”
“No, Dr. Ted, this time you can have the lot. I want something I can bite into—”
“I’ve got the new Evelyn Waugh,” Fredericka offered.
“Have you read it?”
“No, but I dare to recommend him without a reading.
“Good girl,” Dr. Scott said, “and,” he added, “a good business woman, perhaps. Well, the storm seems to have rumbled itself away into the distance. Shall we go along before it decides to come back?” He struggled to his feet from the low chair.
As they walked back together, Fredericka wondered if Philippine and the doctor were aware of her stupid fears and were simply being kind. But she was reassured when they came inside when she suggested it; and sat down in the sitting room.
“I’ve just remembered that some books came in the other day that must have been ordered for you, Philippine,” Fredericka said.
“Yes? What are they, then?”
“All about herbs and things, I think. I’ll go and see if you like.”
“Oh no, don’t bother,” Philippine said. “I didn’t order them but it may have been Mrs. Sutton. She does most of the professional reading. Anyway, right now I don’t believe any of us want anything but our escapes.”
“Quite right, too,” Dr. Scott agreed. “Well, you get your novel and I’ll take my westerns. This young lady ought to get some sleep.”
Fredericka went to collect the books and when she returned the other two stood up at once.
“Now one last word of advice, Miss Wing, if you’ll forgive me,” Dr. Scott said. “Take a warm bath, swallow one of my pink pills, and then straight to bed and not another thought before morning.”
After they had gone, Fredericka took Dr. Scott’s advice but she did have a few thoughts before she drifted off to sleep. For some reason she hadn’t mentioned her afternoon’s encounter with Roger. She would have liked to have asked Dr. Scott and Philippine more about him, but some instinct had held her back. Perhaps it was just as well. Too many people already did too much talking in South Sutton, Mass.
Chapter 7
All Sunday night the thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning flashed along the horizon. In the morning Fredericka woke to find the air still heavy, and the storm clouds black in an angry sky. She dressed slowly feeling the weight of the day pressing against her temples. It might be Dr. Scott’s pill, it might be this sultry morning or it might just be herself, she thought, as she moved slowly about the house in an effort to plan the day’s work that faced her. Coffee would help, and coffee did help, but Fredericka did not have time to eat breakfast before the customers began to arrive. By eleven o’clock Christopher had not shown up for work and Fredericka felt as though she had been standing upright in a torture chamber all night long. Then, just as she thought that she could count on a free moment, the screen door banged again and the minister and his wife came in.
After a perfunctory greeting, the Reverend Archibald and Mrs. Williams turned to study the shelves in an absorbed manner while Frederick hovered about. She knew that, like everyone else, they had come to ask questions. She watched their solid backs with resignation, and wondered if she dared to tell them that she hadn’t had breakfast, and ask if they would excuse her long enough to make fresh coffee and boil an egg. But just as she had summoned courage to make this suggestion, the minister turned around to ask if she had Bertrand Russell’s latest book. She had, but it was in the stable with the batch of books that Chris had brought up on Saturday. She should have unpacked them yesterday…
“I’ll just have to run down to the stockroom and get it for you,” Fredericka said. “Or I can send it around later when Chris comes,” she suggested hopefully.
“I’d rather like to see it here if you don’t mind,” Mr. Williams said. “That is, of course, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“No, of course, no trouble at all,” Fredericka answered over her shoulder as she hurried away. Best to get it over with and then perhaps they would ask their questions and go.
She found the book without much difficulty but it was obvious that the stockroom needed attention. Would Chris never come? She returned to the Rev. and Mrs. Williams and when the minister had settled
down in the comfortable chair in the living room, Mrs. Williams at once opened her barrage of questions. Fredericka felt faint. She had withstood the morning rush and now this avalanche had to fall on her. She did not dare to sit down for fear it would be taken as an invitation to stay. She leant heavily against the solid bookcase behind her.
“The body was in dear Lucy’s hammock, you say?”
Fredericka had not said, but she mumbled something that might be taken for “yes.”
“Oh, dear Miss Wing, may I just take a tiny peek at it? We have a meeting of the Women’s Guild this afternoon and I’m sure they will want to know just how things were.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Williams, but, you see the police have taken the hammock away.” Then seeing the unmistakable expression of cat-after-swallowing-canary on Mrs. Williams’s face she realized, too late, that she had made a serious slip.
“The police, you say. What does that mean?”
Oh, if only I had had sense enough to say “Dr. Scott,” she thought. “I believe the police always deal with these things,” she said lamely.
“Oh.” Mrs. Williams’s face fell and then brightened. She had another thought. “Was there any blood? I mean on the hammock, or the ground, or—or—or”—she waved a vague hand—“or on the body?” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as she mouthed the last lovely word.
“I—I don’t really know.”
“Don’t know. Surely it was you who discovered the body. Well, I’m certain there has been bloodshed. She was a wicked woman and she deserved to die. Have they asked James Brewster anything about this, I wonder. The wages of sin—” she added darkly.
The minister looked up from his book, and Mrs. Williams stopped her flow of words for a moment.
This was Fredericka’s chance and she said quickly, “I wonder if you would mind very much if I excused myself for a moment. The customers came earlier than I expected and I haven’t yet had any breakfast. I—I feel rather faint with the heat.”