by Andre Norton
“I’ve had summer night and stars,” Fredericka said, “and I’ll not soon forget it.”
“Stop burbling,” Peter said, laughing. “If we had a dictaphone and you could hear back what you’ve been saying, I think you’d agree that it would make a beautiful page for one of your scribblers, Fredericka—Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, shall we say?”
“Oh Peter, you beast,” Connie said, getting up to clear away the dishes. “You like this house just as much as we do. You are, in fact, jealous. Besides you just can’t wait to do your little Sherlock Holmes act. End of the chapter and all that.”
“How intuitive you are, my dear Connie. But to show you I’m a man of iron, I’ll dry the dishes for you first.”
“You’ll have to, as penance.”
They departed together into the kitchen and Thane and Fredericka watched the storm roll away and the stars come out one by one.
“I do love this place,” Fredericka said simply.
“Do you mean this place or do you mean the village of South Sutton lying out there for your inspection?”
“Both,” Fredericka answered quickly.
“You’re not going to run out on us then, in spite of everything?”
“No. Oh no. Not until I have to. And it’s not in spite of everything—it’s well, almost because of it,” Fredericka answered, thinking of her conversation with Peter that afternoon.
Thane made no answer. He lit a cigarette for Fredericka, then his own pipe and puffed at it quietly until Connie and Peter came back.
“Now,” Peter announced.
“Speech, speech,” Thane muttered without taking his pipe from between his teeth.
“It’s your show really, Carey,” Peter said a little half-heartedly. Thane now removed his pipe and sat forward in his chair. “I am quite aware that I’m supposed to bow out after that little sop to your conscience, Peter. And I will—eventually—but first I want to give you a small piece of information. I’ve just had the chemist’s report on that face cream. It was, as you thought, packed full of another beautiful herb poison—cowbane, sometimes mistakenly called wild parsnip. It can be absorbed through the skin and can be fatal when the skin is broken, as Margie’s was, in several places. Poor kid.” He stopped, and then added with an attempt at cheerfulness: “And now policeman defers to Sherlock Holmes. But by way of introduction I would just like to say that I seem to remember telling Fredericka that one day I’d like to write a murder-mystery. Well, I’m not so sure about that now. I think I’m going to take up painting.” He sat back again in his chair, adding: “You can have the floor now, only just don’t forget that I’m a sensitive man even if I am a chief of police. Everything that you say is apt to be held against you.”
“O.K., O.K. Bouquets where bouquets is due. Now I’ll just carry on from where I was about to start when I was so rudely interrupted. This case was a family affair and to understand Philippine’s motive for killing Catherine Clay we have to go back to 1945. Perhaps I should say here that my sudden trip to Washington gave me this background information. And I went to Washington because Catherine Clay had received a number of letters from France, including one that came after her death and never reached Mrs. Sutton because Philippine got it from Margie, who had taken it from Chris at the bookshop. It was evident from what I learned—fortunately Chris had some old envelopes for his stamp collection with the name of a French legal firm printed on the outside—that Catherine Clay had got hold of some facts I am about to reveal and was practising a form of private blackmail on her supposed cousin.”
“Supposed?” Connie asked.
“Don’t interrupt. I am coming to that. Perhaps it’s best to go back to where I started—the year 1945—the year of the liberation. A young girl called Alma Fersen who had been imprisoned by the Nazis was one of those released from a concentration camp. During her three years of imprisonment she had come to know intimately a French girl who had been a member of the Maquis—a girl called Philippine D’Arnley Sutton. Alma learned all about this girl. She was the only daughter of an American man, Arthur Sutton, an artist who had settled in France after World War I and married a French woman, Renée D’Arnley. Both the real Philippine’s parents were dead, her father before the war, and her mother in a bombing raid during the German invasion. Toward the end of the war, Philippine herself died. There are no facts available about this. It may be that our Alma hastened the end. Anyway she knew that Philippine’s name would be far more useful to her than her own in the post-war world, so she changed their clothes and assumed Philippine’s identity. Alma was a fully qualified chemist which was an important fact in our investigations, because the real Philippine wasn’t. I say ‘our’ investigations. I mean the Government ones. They’d had an eye on Alma-Philippine as on all aliens. This greatly expedited my Washington inquiries. Alma Fersen was supposed to have died late in 1944. We now know that she is only now dying.”
“Has died,” Connie amended. “Thane got the message just before you came.”
“So be it,” Peter said, and then went on quickly: “When Alma, as Philippine, emerged from the camp, she soon discovered that Margaret Sutton was searching for her niece, and it was not long before, as Philippine Sutton, she came to America to gladden the hearts of all who knew her—”
“The fact is that she did—gladden their hearts, I mean,” Connie said quickly.
“Well—yes and no, to that one. She was a good business woman and she had charm. She took charge and greatly helped Margaret who had started the herb farm and had had to carry on, virtually alone, while Roger was in the war and Catherine off in New York.
“It was also in 1945 that Catherine left her husband and came home for the first time since her marriage. She and Philippine hated each other on sight and soon after Philippine arrived in 1946 Catherine secured her divorce and returned to New York to start a beauty parlour venture. That was also the year that Roger returned home.
“By 1949, Philippine was well entrenched, the herb business was doing very well, and she was able to start her experimental laboratory. Catherine, on the other hand, had run into business difficulties in New York, tried dope peddling to recover and was eventually forced to return to South Sutton under the eye of the police. Rumour had it by then that Philippine and Roger were engaged. We now know that Roger was devoted to Philippine because of her clinical attitude toward his injury, but he did not want to marry her. Philippine, of course, wanted marriage, but she had begun to despair of this hope with Roger and had set her cap for James Brewster who was more susceptible, and, if not a Sutton, definitely well off. But Catherine also had designs on the town’s Beau Brummell dating from 1945, and this added fuel to the flames of their hatred. In 1950 Sutton College established its new department of Military Government and Colonel Peter Mohun came to South Sutton.”
“Enter hero,” Thane put in quickly.
“As you say, Carey—thank you—‘enter hero’! This brings us to 1951. Early this year, Philippine took in Margie Hartwell as helper in the lab and her mother as bookkeeper. So now our family is—or was—complete. But if we’re going to bring ourselves right up to date and complete our cast of characters, we come to July, 1951 and the arrival of Fredericka Wing to take over the bookshop from Lucy Hartwell.”
“Enter heroine,” Thane muttered.
“As you say, Carey—thank you—‘enter heroine’! If it hadn’t been for Fredericka I don’t think either the police or their assistant would have worked this thing out—at any rate, not so soon.”
“I have to agree to that one, Peter, and to applaud your most excellent—oh, most excellent—exposition. But please, teacher, may I ask one or two questions?” Peter laughed, and Thane hurried on. “The principal motive you’ve given Philippine for the murder of Catherine Clay is jealousy. But you’ve only hinted at the deeper reason. The spark that set off the fuse was the fact that, somehow, Catherine had discovered the possibility of Philippine’s true identity. She’d been writing to that firm in France
who were doing a little quiet investigating for her. Philippine must have cottoned to that and wanted to kill Catherine before the investigations went too far. I gather that she was just in the nick of time. That letter that came after Catherine’s death revealed all. Wasn’t it also true that Catherine badly wanted money and was pressing her mother for it?”
“Oh yes—I thought I had said all that. Philippine certainly wasn’t going to let any of her hard-earned cash go to Catherine. There was that, too.”
“But I don’t see, Peter,” Connie said suddenly, “why, if you found out this Alma Fersen business when you went to Washington, you didn’t come back and bag your bird quick before she went for anyone else.”
“Two reasons. I hadn’t final proof. You remember that Philippine got hold of that last letter and presumably destroyed it. Anyway it was never found. I had to write to France and moreover to work through the Sûreté and I’ve only just today had the final information. The other reason was that even knowing that our little Philippine was, in fact, Alma Fersen, didn’t prove that she’d murdered Catherine Clay and Margie Hartwell. I think now that I might have bluffed her into a confession because Margaret had actually seen her in the lab with the capsules, too. But I didn’t know that, of course, and I was convinced that we had to have concrete evidence. Thinking it over after the event, I believe that she wouldn’t have given in if Margaret hadn’t been so sure and I hadn’t had that nasty little mess of poisoned face cream in my pocket. She was no mean adversary, as they say in the best books.”
“What about that dope in Mrs. Hartwell’s bag?” Fredericka asked.
“I regret to say that it got there from James Brewster’s apartment via Philippine. Brewster was running a nice little racket under cover of his great respectability. He kept Catherine supplied and Philippine was aware of this, too. They knew James’s place would be searched and they figured that Mrs. Hartwell’s bag was a most excellent place for the current batch to be discovered, as indeed it was.”
“But how did you find all that out. He didn’t confess, did he?”
“Oh never. He’s the best cover-upper ever known but he was so sure of himself that he neglected to jettison his supplies in his office in Worcester and that’s how we got him. He’ll do time, I’m happy to say.”
“And another little thing he forgot to hide was the architect’s drawing of his future happy home,” Thane contributed.
“Yes. He confessed in the end that he had intended it for Catherine originally but when he tired of her it was replanned for Philippine. They would have made a most excellent pair. He was, of course, another one of Philippine’s motives for murder.”
“He must have suspected her, surely,” Connie said.
“Undoubtedly. He may even have encouraged her in the first show. But, of course, he won’t admit to anything of the sort. He’s a lawyer with a strong sense of self-preservation.”
“He’ll need it when he gets out,” Thane said with obvious pleasure.
They were all silent for a time when he finished speaking and then Peter got slowly to his feet. “I promised Dr. Scott to get Fredericka home early and I have a hunch that you two could do with some sleep.”
Connie yawned and then laughed. “I think you’re sensible, Peter, but we do hate to have you go. May I help for a while longer in the bookshop, Fredericka? I had no idea it would be such fun. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask you—can you tell me why the Reverend Archibald has such a passion for Bertrand Russell’s books? I never would have suspected it of him.”
“Sh—Connie,” Peter answered quickly, “We can’t start questioning the minister.”
“Perhaps he wants watching.” Thane laughed. “But I can’t spare a man right now. Perhaps Colonel Mohun—”
“It’s time we left, Fredericka,” Peter said quickly, taking her arm and handing over her crutch.
When they got to the car, Peter stopped to push down the top.
“All the thunder’s over, my dear,” he said quietly, “and I thought we’d like to look at the stars.”
“It’s beautiful, Peter, and so incredibly peaceful. I’ve been thinking of that all evening. All this horror and now it’s gone there’s peace again.”
“But is that such a world-shaking thought, my dear Fredericka?”
“Oh, Peter, don’t make fun of me. It’s only that two people who were so much a part of the life of this place—are dead and yet even Mrs. Sutton is peaceful.”
“It will take ‘Mom’ Hartwell a long time to recover—James probably never will.”
“Oh yes—but I’m not charitable enough to waste any sympathy on him.”
“And I’m certain I don’t want you to, my dear Fredericka, especially as I could see plainly that he had begun to make sheep’s eyes at you.”
“I suppose he did care about Philippine?”
“I wonder. She had a hold on him because she knew about his little dope racket. But I must say his interest in building his estate certainly picked up after Catherine was out of the way.”
“Do you think he found Philippine looking for the silver box when he discovered the body on that awful Saturday afternoon?”
“He may have done. It’s hard to say. But can’t we leave him now, please—I’d rather like to talk about ourselves—”
“Is there anything to say about us?”
“Yes, lots, and stop being coy. Now. We’ve settled up all the tag ends of our first case, Watson. But in the general excitement I seem to have forgotten several private matters. Now perhaps you noticed that I dressed up for you this evening? No—? I am disappointed. First the car. Now my best suit. Well, the last time I wore it was when I took my girl friend to the bazaar. And since then, what with one thing and another, I’ve been too busy to go to parties. So—tonight, when I put on my Sunday-go-to-Meeting clothes I fished in my pocket and found a little folded slip of paper—”
“A clue—in fact the tussie-mussie verse,” Fredericka said at once. “I’d forgotten about it, too, until this afternoon.”
“Now what brought it into your head this afternoon, I wonder?”
“Margaret Sutton said I was to ask you for it.”
“Did she now. Well, here it is, then. I was going to compromise but I won’t. I always do what Margaret tells me to.”
He handed Fredericka the paper and she leant forward to read it under the dashboard light:
No man worth getting
Is easy got
So don’t ever say die
And regret your lot.
They both laughed and then Peter said slowly. “Now you can understand that I didn’t think it was wise to give ideas like that to a go-getting business woman like Fredericka Wing. I was, I confess it, scared to death.”
“So you think you were worth getting, do you?”
“Of course I hadn’t myself in mind for a moment. I was just thinking of the impact on South Sutton if you once got an idea like that into your very attractive head.”
“I see. So now you’ve got over your first panic; public—and personal—”
“On the personal side, something else has taken the place of panic, and that’s the truth. I still don’t think I’m much of a catch, Fredericka—not any more, but right now I’d give a good deal to think I was worth chasing.”
Fredericka said nothing and after a moment he went on quietly: “Do you know I never heard another word about that cold of yours once we’d had our murder. You recovered?”
“Oh yes. After I sneezed on Sunday and brought on all the disaster, I immediately began to get better.”
“I see. But up until Saturday, if I’m not mistaken, I think you went on sneezing. I seem to recall a good Monday sneeze—that was for danger—quite right, too. Now—this is very important. Did you sneeze on Tuesday as well?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure I did because I tried to remember how the rhyme went on and you wouldn’t tell me.”
Peter ran the car over to the grass verge on the top of the last hill so
that they could look down at the valley and up at the stars. Then he switched off the engine and turned to look down into the pale oval of her upturned face. “The rhyme, dear Fredericka, goes like this:”
Sneeze on Sunday and safety seek,
The devil will have you the rest of the week.
“Yes, we know all about that—”
“Don’t interrupt please—”
Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger—
Sneeze on Tuesday—kiss a stranger.
“Oh!”
“But I’m not a stranger any more, am I? And you wouldn’t mind very much, would you?”
* * * *
It was sometime later when the bright new car coasted down the hill and coughed itself back to life.
“I don’t know what Dr. Scott would say, my love, about my keeping you out so late,” Peter said quietly, “but if that’s what it’s like to be chased by Fredericka, I’m afraid I’ll be back for more. You’ve made me very happy—”
“And you, me,” Fredericka murmured sleepily, as she looked up at the night sky and nearby friendly stars.