Compartment K

by Helen Reilly

  It was a dismissal in the regal manner. Todhunter had gotten as much as he had hoped for. He bowed, murmured that he’d be pleased, and left the terrace, but not the Questing property. There was no physical clue to Davidson’s killer, there was one to Madame Flavelle’s, the black silk threads in his pocket, and the high heeled slippers. Whoever had killed the Frenchwoman had killed Davidson. It had reduced itself to a matter of simple arithmetic. The perpetrator had to be one of eight people, he automatically dismissed Rose O’Hara. To whose door, whose window, had Madame Flavelle gone in the small hours of the morning with her offer to swop silence for the jewels? Or was it Candy Font’s ex-husband she had contacted? Was that what Langley was at Amethyst Lake for?

  Starting with the fence as the center and the lodge and the three guest cottages as the terminals of four radiating spokes Todhunter began a slow foot-by-foot scrutiny of the needle-strewn ground, to which he gave only half his mind. The other half was occupied with Elizabeth Questing, and the people surrounding her. The tension, in all of them, was marked. They were waiting for something. What? “I’m giving a little party tonight. It’s the eve of my birthday.” He wondered how old she was. Rose O’Hara told him later.

  Todhunter found no trace of the Frenchwoman around the lodge or the three guest cottages. The paths channeling steep banks of glossy laurel and young firs were of bluestone on which footprints would leave no perceptible trace. The place was definitely overgrown. While he was about it, he reconnoitered the route Daniel Font had taken early the evening before, when he left Rose

  O’Hara’s room in the lodge and started for the isolated arm of the lake with the Frenchwoman on his tail.

  Pines towered overhead, there were bays of underbrush in every direction, Madame Flavelle could easily have lost him in the darkness in under the trees before he reached a recognizable path in fairly open territory. But Madame Flavelle was a tenacious woman. It was her tenacity that had killed her, with a noose—a scarf, a necktie—flung swiftly and pulled tight.

  Todhunter was retracing his steps when he ran into Rose O’Hara, descending from her own porch, in a tweed skirt, a cardigan and moccasins. She was evidently going for a walk. The sight of him was not a pleasure. Only her natural good manners prevented it from being more evident. She said stiflly and with a look of surprise that her cousin would be forty on her next birthday, which was tomorrow.

  “Is there anything particular about Mrs. Questing’s fortieth birthday, Miss O’Hara? Does she come into more property, anything like that?”

  Rose frowned at a stretch of emerald water in sunlight. The cloudless summer afternoon couldn’t defeat the overhanging shadow. They were all under its threat. It would deepen and deepen . . . a bolt had flashed from it and Davidson had been killed, another bolt last night and the Frenchwoman had gone to her death. Who could tell when or where it would strike again. Elizabeth might be next . . . the police were a protection of sorts. . . . She overcame her reluctance to talk about Elizabeth to this stranger, any stranger.

  “My cousin may possibly be thinking of marrying again.”

  “Colonel Eden, you mean?”

  It had definitely crossed Rose’s mind but she wTas by no means sure. She shrugged. “It could be. I don’t know.”

  She told Todhunter what she had told Nils on the train, that if Elizabeth had remarried before she was forty, she would have forfeited her husband’s estate. For the first two or three years Humphrey Questing’s people, Loretta among them, had hoped against hope that she would remarry but Elizabeth had shown no sign of doing so.

  “Humphrey Questing was considerably older than your cousin, Miss O’Hara?”

  “He was almost twenty years older.”

  “They were happy together?”

  “Extremely happy, Mr. Todhunter. In spite of the difference in their ages.”

  Rose had never forgotten Elizabeth as she had been three months before Humphrey Questing’s death. She herself was just seventeen at the time and she had gone with her mother for the week end to the Questing house on Long Island. She didn’t know Elizabeth well then; she had been deeply impressed by the first glimpse of her cousin, coming down the stairs on Humphrey Questing’s arm, radiantly beautiful, radiating happiness. The next time they met, five or six months later, the difference in Elizabeth wras appalling. The radiance had gone out of her. It had never come back.

  Todhunter played with the idea of a second marriage. It wasn’t much good. Even if Elizabeth Questing had remarried she would have had her dower right and would still have been a very rich woman. “How long has your cousin known Colonel Eden, Miss O’Hara?”

  Rose said, “A long while.”

  “Did she know him before her husband’s death?”

  “Oh, yes.” Eden had been a guest at the Long Island place when she was there that year. “But Mr. Todhunter, I don’t see—”

  Nor did Todhunter, at the moment. Things to look up. What Humphrey Questing had died of for instance. . . . He asked whether George Langley had left the lake and Rose said no. He was somewhere about. Colonel Eden was driving down to Field and had offered Langley a lift back, but Langley had refused, said he was in no hurry.

  Rose left him then and Todhunter continued with his scrutiny of the terrain. Only in the rather soft ground close to the fence she had come through were there any of Madame Flavelle’s heel marks, and they pointed in—to the Questing estate. She could have left the threads from her robe on the rough wood of the rail coming in, could have gone out another way. Or ... he shrugged. She was dead. The autopsy would tell them more precisely about the manner of death; he started for the Chalet and a phone booth.

  The inspector might have something for him, he definitely had something for the inspector. That was the presence, within easy walking distance of Elizabeth Questing’s Murray Hill house, of six of the eight people who were exclusive candidates for the murders of Davidson and Madame Flavelle. The Font apartment was less than four blocks from the Murray Hill house. Langley had been there in the late afternoon, so had the Beldings, separately. And the Fonts themselves and Loretta Pilgrim had been in and out. It was true that the unknown woman had been killed later on that night, but she had been seen in daylight, pounding on the Questing front door and sitting weeping on the front steps.

  After leaving Todhunter, Rose continued with her interrupted walk. It was a long one. She went all the way round the lake. Now and again riders passed her on the trail to the west. But not Nils and Candy Font. They must be enjoying themselves. . . . Was Nils genuinely attracted to Candy—or was he putting on an act? An act? Not Nils. He did as he pleased. What concern was it of hers? Nils was now a free agent . . .

  She came out of the trees at the far end of the lake. A flat stretch from which the mountains sloped up sharply; she was hot. She sat down on a log to rest. But after a moment she got up. She had an odd sensation of being no longer alone. She looked around. There was no one in sight, but there was plenty of cover, clumps of low bushes, a big outdoor fireplace, a dilapidated shed. It was an isolated spot, and she was uneasy. Crossing the flats, jumping over rills and stretches of water she started back on the well-defined path through the woods.

  The light was beginning to go. In the open it was still bright but in here it was dim. She quickened her pace nervously, made herself think of other things. If Elizabeth was going to marry Hugh Eden it would mean a great change in her life. Perhaps to mark it she meant to give the Fonts and Loretta Pilgrim something, some stock, or some property. Perhaps that was why she had asked them out here. In a way it would explain her note to Langley, her cutting off the allowance she had made him, she seemed to like him, and she would scarcely have done that without a reason. Although you couldn’t tell with Elizabeth. It wasn’t that she was secretive, but she had made her own decisions for so long that it never occurred to her to explain them to anyone.

  It was a relief when the lodge came into view. Back there in the deep woods Rose had been afraid senselessly. She had
been afraid because fear was in the air.

  There was no one on the long terrace. Gertrude Belding was in the great square living room arranging flowers. She fumbled and bumbled even more than usual. She was worried about Elizabeth. “I don’t care what that doctor said, Rose, she’s not well. All these people—it’s too much for her. She hasn’t eaten anything in days, scarcely touched her luncheon tray. And she usually likes sweetbreads ... I cooked them myself. I'm going to make an eggnog and see if I can get her to take that. . . She swept up a few leaves, dropped a scissors, retrieved it and went off to the kitchen regions.

  Elizabeth came into the room a few minutes later. She didn’t seem to have slept, or if she had it hadn’t done her any good. There were shadows under her eyes. She surveyed Gertrude’s floral efforts with a faint smile and went about rearranging sprays. When she finished with the bowl of Iceland poppies on the mantel she didn’t move. She stood on the hearth looking up at the oil of Humphrey Questing above it, a hand resting on the great plank of which the shelf was made.

  She was giving the portrait a long scrutiny.

  Was she contrasting Humphrey Questing with Hugh Eden, wondering whether to put another man in Humphrey’s place? Her face had an unguarded look, the eyes wide, the mouth relaxed.

  She gave her head a slow shake, drew breath deeply into her lungs, dropped her hand and turned towards Rose.

  “Memories, people talk about them. It’s hard to remember, hard to reconstruct emotion when it’s dead, give it back life and blood and bones. But how I hated him.”

  TWELVE

  'How I hated him.’ Him. Humphrey. Her dead husband. Rose couldn’t believe her ears. She stared at her cousin speechless with shock.

  Elizabeth stooped and put a match to the fire and sat down composedly in a chair on the other side of the wide hearth. She looked into the flames. “You didn’t know, Rose, you were too young. Your mother never told you? No, I didn’t think so. But she knew . . .she was very good to me, she and I were very close. That’s why Humphrey got rid of her ... as lie did of all my friends. And Loretta and the others aided and abetted him ... I was a spineless fool. I should have left him, but my mother was alive then. She had a horror of poverty, and she was very ambitious for me, and her health was beginning to go ... I took the wrong way out.”

  Elizabeth spoke calmly, quietly, as though she were thinking aloud and didn’t expect any comment. Rose made none. She was bemused, bewildered. To have your ideas, mental images, turned upside down, stood on their heads, was dizzying. A tale that was told —there was no passion in Elizabeth, no particular feeling. She had simply stated facts. How, Rose thought, could I have been so wildly, completely, wrong? Well, she had been . . . then Elizabeth’s final quiet statement hit her. ‘I took the wrong way out.’ Humphrey Questing had died of an exploded ulcer. The doctor had been attending him only a short time . . . “No, no, no,” Rose’s mind shouted at her. “Not that. Never. You’re mad. Elizabeth wouldn’t . . .” She glanced at her cousin and sanity came back.

  Elizabeth sat at ease, tapping a poppy with a broken stem against a crossed knee, her dark head bent. She looked up.

  “You’ve still got the farm, haven’t you?”

  The farm was in Vermont. It had been left to Rose by her mother. She never went there nowadays, it was too isolated, too hard to get to. She had tried to sell it or rent it, in vain. There were no takers. Rose said yes, wonderingly, and Elizabeth said, “I want to go there, Rose, if you’ll lend it to me.”

  Rose was startled afresh. “Of course, Elizabeth—but you’d never be able to stay at the farm. I went up a year ago on a flying visit. It’s a mess. The old barn is gone, it fell down, and the orchards are gone too, and—oh, the whole place is ghastly. No awnings, no lawns, some of the big trees are down, and it’s alone in that lost valley. Everybody we used to know is dead or has moved away. You’re thinking of it as it was when Mother and Dad were alive, and the Anders were there and the Rennets and Judge Sowerby. You’d never know it now.”

  Elizabeth tossed the poppy into the fire. It’s delicate mauve petals, the green stalk, shriveled and blackened.

  “Japheth in search of his youth—” she smiled faintly, “it’s not that, Rose. I don’t care what the farm’s like, I want to go there— for a little while, anyhow. But that’s for later . . She stretched her feet towards the warmth. She had beautiful legs and ankles, fine-boned, delicate.

  “Tell me, Rose, is there anything serious between you and Nils Gantry?”

  Reticence was one of Elizabeth’s outstanding characteristics, understanding, judgment, good taste. She never pressed, probed, interfered in one’s private life. She had no idle curiosity. The question was as unexpected as it was disconcerting. Rose felt herself flushing. “Nothing in the world,” she said as lightly as she could, and pushed her chair back from the hearth. “That fire's hot.”

  Elizabeth studied her thoughtfully, leaning forward a little, a line between her dark brows. “You’re not—still interested in Daniel Font?”

  Rose was sharply angry. Really her cousin was going too far. If it had been anyone else she would have shown her anger. As it was she spoke coldly.

  “Heavens, no.”

  Elizabeth settled back. Her light frown erased itself.

  “I didn’t think so. He would never have done for vou . . . he's too soft, too malleable. You may never marry. . . . There are far worse fates, believe me. I ought to know.”

  The curve of her lips was bitter. She hadn’t yet finished: the inquisition went on. Luckily it took another turn.

  “How are vou getting on financiallv with the bookshop?”

  Rose relaxed, and said fine, that Estella was a wonderful partner, she did all the work, and had a good hard business head. “We’ll never make a fortune, but it’s a comfortable livine for each of us.”

  Elizabeth nodded, her gaze on the fire. “I’m glad of that. I always meant—” She glanced over her shoulder and broke off. Gertrude Belding was advancing from the dining room with a tall eggnog on a silver tray. She said brightly:

  “For you, Elizabeth. I made it myself just now. And I thought— these little crackers? Then, if you don’t want much dinner it won't matter.”

  Elizabeth looked at the eggnog and then at Gertrude. She made no effort to take the glass. There was amusement in her, and—a light flicker of malice?

  “Very kind of you, Gertrude, but I don’t want it, my dear. Drink it yourself. You know. I believe you’re losing weight. Are you— worrying about anything? You haven’t looked well since you got back from New York—and I thought the change would do you good.”

  There was a riding quality to Elizabeth’s tone. Gertrude put the tray on a table beside her and clutched for her glasses. For a moment Rose was under the impression that she was going to cry. She said, “I’m sorry, I thought you’d like it . . . do try and drink some of it if you can. There’s nothing like—”

  A sharp barking interrupted her. Candy’s pink poodle Augustus came running into the room. Daniel was behind the dog. He was grave, unsmiling. The white bandage on the back of his head stood out in the half-light. He looked tired, but he said he was fine, absently. Harry Belding had told him about Madame Flavelle, and Davidson and the jewels, and he was dumbfounded. “The woman had a heavy hand,” he fingered the bandage, “but I can’t help feeling sorry for her.” He pulled a footstool forward and sat down.

  “Belding said a New York detective followed Davidson, that the detective came here . .

  Elizabeth’s nod was languid. “You missed the boat, Daniel. It was quite a scene. A charming little man. I liked him.”

  She spoke as if what had happened earlier in the day had taken place on another planet, could have nothing to do with them. It wasn’t true, and Rose hadn’t found Todhunter charming, far from it . . . Daniel was clearly on edge. He realized the seriousness of the whole terrible business. Was he worried about Candy? She had confessed all she knew, and so far the police hadn’t done anythin
g to any one of the three of them for lying across the board, and probably wouldn’t. They discussed Davidson and Madame Flavelle and the jewels desultorily. The poodle was running around among chairs and tables. He set up another fit of barking and Daniel said irritably, “Damn that brute. I can’t control it . .

  “Here, pooch. Atta boy.”

  Fingers snapped. It was George Langley. Langley strolled through the door, scooped up the poodle, dropped into a chair near Elizabeth, and began stroking the silky pink fur. The dog seemed to like it, settled himself contentedly.

  This, Rose thought, was all that wfas needed. Present husband meets ex. But there was no unpleasantness. Both men took it in their stride. They had evidently met casually before. They exchanged nods. Daniel’s was stiff. Langley was completely easy. “Saw Candy this morning, she looks well. Nice convertible you bought her, old boy. I saw it in front of your place in New York. Must have run into money . .

  Money . . . Rose looked at the fire. Daniel had said that day in her compartment, “If only I had more money, everything would be all right. Candy would be content.” She had wrung Langley dry, and gotten rid of him. Would she do the same thing to Daniel if another, wealthier possibility came along? Would it hurt him? Did he still care anything for her?

  After a few minutes Elizabeth got up. She had letters to write. “I wrill see you all later.”

  “Am I invited?” Langley wanted to know and she said over her shoulder, “Now that you’re here, George, you might as well stay,” and left them.

  Outside there were voices, the jingle of metal; the riders were returning. They had been gone a long while, it was almost half-past five. Langley put the poodle on a chair and strolled towards the terrace. Daniel propped himself on the arm of a chair near Rose.

  “What is that fellow up to?” he said in a low voice, looking after Langley. “That’s a queer story.”