Hunt with the Hounds

by Mignon G. Eberhart

  Sue said slowly: “The fences across Wat and Ruby’s place are low. So is the fence for the Luddington woods.… Oh, Fitz, there are the hoofprints in our pine woods!”

  He nodded and said, still with a withdrawn, rather absent look, “Let’s go in and visit Jeremy.”

  Jeremy, in the haughty manner of indulged old age, seemed, although austerely, to appreciate the visit. Fitz looked at the cut, which was healing, and poked around the loose box, rather curiously, looking into the feeding rack and the watering pail, examining the old small frame where once there had been a name plate. “Too bad he can’t talk,” he said finally. “Well, let’s go back to the house.”

  They strolled back to the house along the sunny turf, between green hedges; they sat on the steps at the side entrance and talked of Sam Bronson, of the pantry window (Fitz rose and looked at it again, from the outside this time, pushing back the shrubbery and getting old lilac seed pods, unpruned from the previous summer, in his hair). Of, again, Dr. Luddington’s murder, for Fitz questioned her, in as minute detail as if he had never heard any of it before then. She told him too of Woody’s meeting with Ernestine.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “I don’t think Woody’s feelings were very deep. He’s a kid really in spite of all his airs of maturity. Certainly they can’t suspect him of murder on so slim a basis and besides he had an alibi.”

  He said nothing, however, of Camilla, or of Jed’s angry accusation that he and Ernestine had had more than a friendship. Probably he never would say anything of it.

  When he left it was to drive out to the Hunting Horn.

  “The Hunting Horn! Woody!”

  “No, no. It’s only a notion. May come to nothing. I’ll talk to the sheriff. They are short of men but there ought to be one here.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, and thought, “Why am I lying? I am afraid. I’m in terror—when I think of it, when it seems real.”

  “It’s possible that somebody’s only trying to frighten you.… When will Woody be home?”

  “Soon.”

  He looked at her for a moment and then took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I wish,” he said suddenly and rather savagely, “that I’d made you marry me last week—last winter—before the trial, before … Chrisy!” He shouted toward the kitchen.

  Chrisy came, prompt and vengeful. “Keep your eye on her,” Fitz said. “And if anybody comes around the place …”

  “Let him,” Chrisy said dangerously. “Only let him!”

  He smiled but his eyes were still cold with fear and with something of Chrisy’s own rage when he went away.

  It was by then noon. Woody returned in time for lunch, disgruntled and sleepy. The sheriff had listened but made no comment; Woody had left Jed at Duval Hall. Chrisy came in with dessert and the news that some troopers had been in the pine woods and had tried to take casts of the churned up clay bank which showed, they had thought, the marks of horses’ hooves. She didn’t know whether or not they had been successful. “I couldn’t get that close,” she said.

  Caroline paled. “Chrisy, stay out of the pine woods!”

  Woody gave her an admiring look. “Good for you, Chrisy. I didn’t think of it myself.”

  It was in the late afternoon, with Woody asleep and tossing uneasily in his sleep, and Caroline sitting on an upturned feed box in the sun near the stables, her chin on her hands and Sister Britches drowsing at her feet, that Camilla came.

  She came as she had come before, with a swift sweep up the drive and gravel shooting from under the tires of Jed’s car as she came to a rapid stop.

  She had come to see Sue. She had something to say; she went directly and with a certain obstinate strength to the point.

  She did make sure that no one was within hearing distance before she spoke, but then she did not hesitate. “I just wanted to tell you, Sue, I’ve made up my mind you ought to know what I’m going to do.” She had come in a car but she was wearing riding clothes. She pulled off her string gloves and looked at Sue with eyes that seemed to sink deeply into her head. “I know why Ernestine phoned for you that night. And if you don’t stop leading Fitz Wilson on, and acting the way you act with Jed, I’m going to tell it. I’m going to marry Fitz Wilson.”

  18

  SHE REPRESSED a childish, idiotic and obvious retort: “Does Fitz know it?” before the enormity that lay behind Camilla’s words emerged. She had only a glimpse; it was a curious and rather terrible thing even half seen; it checked any words on her lips. She must be careful, go slowly, but find out what Camilla meant. “You’d better come in, Camilla.”

  They were at the steps; Camilla glanced toward the pine woods, gave a kind of shiver and said, “Well. Yes. If that wasn’t Woody last night, just trying to help you out with the police …”

  “It wasn’t Woody,” Sue said definitely and held the door wide.

  Camilla took off the other glove and gave Sue an odd look; she would come no further than the hall. She settled herself in a stiff and uncomfortable chair; she had a riding crop tucked under her arm, absently, as she got out of the car. She was wearing jodhpurs and low boots; she crossed her knees and whacked one boot with her crop. Where had somebody done just that? Who had talked of it? Camilla said abruptly, “What are you staring like that for?”

  “Am I? I didn’t mean …” Woody, of course! When he’d entered Dr. Luddington’s office, somebody in the consulting room had spoken, had whacked his boot with a crop. Camilla?

  But that was not likely. Besides, anybody might do that, absently, nervously as Camilla was doing it. Camilla’s cold blue eyes seemed to have receded until they looked black. She was slim and elegant and erect, yet her features had thickness and obstinacy, her broad forehead with its projecting frontal bone, her blunt nose, her strong, thick jaw; in spite of her slimness and elegance there was an impression of heavy and insensitive force. She said, “You can say it wasn’t Woody. But I’m not going to mince matters, Sue Poore. We’ve known each other a long time. I’m going to say exactly what I think and what I know and what I’m going to do if you …” She paused, whacked her boot and said, “If you don’t show some sense. You see, I know that you killed Ernestine.”

  Sue stood up, half dazed, half incredulous. “What do you mean?”

  “I wouldn’t tell a soul. I didn’t. Everybody has asked me if I know; even Jed and Fitz, and of course at first the police. But Ernestine was dead and it couldn’t bring her back. Jed was on trial and I wanted him to be acquitted and I could see that if I told it would only make things worse for him, just then. Because—of course, I didn’t actually see you shoot her.”

  “Camilla …” Sue sat down: she put her hands to her temples dizzily; she must find her way through a tangle she had not known existed and it was not going to be easy; it never was with Camilla. She wished for Fitz. She told herself again to go carefully. “Camilla—maybe you’d better start at the beginning. You said that you knew why Ernestine sent for me.”

  Camilla nodded and whacked the crop. “Of course I know. She and Jed had the most terrific row. I heard them. I was dressing to go to Fitz’s house. Ernestine was furious; she was so mad she said she was going to leave him. She was tired of the kind of life he liked; she said he had no ambition and she was going to have what she wanted and she was going to leave him.”

  “But—but Jed didn’t say that.” And when Woody had told his story of Ernestine’s stated interview, Jed had seemed genuinely surprised.

  Camilla said, “Oh, I don’t suppose he believed it. Ernestine was always threatening him like that. Ernestine,” said Camilla on a thoughtful note as if some time she had experienced it, “could be real mean. But then Jed said he was in love with you and wanted to marry you and Ernestine needn’t think she was leaving him because the shoe was on the other foot. Or something like that …” Camilla paused and eyed Sue, as if trying to recall every detail of the scene she had overheard and said again, at last, thoughtfully, “It was a real fight. I kept thi
nking it was lucky the servants were out. And then Ernestine came into the hall and I heard her phone to you. And that’s why.”

  “Why …” said Sue, feeling as if she were in deep waters indeed and Camilla replied succinctly, “To tell you to let Jed alone, of course. To tell you she’d put a stop to any divorce that Jed himself wanted. Why, my gracious, Sue, you knew Ernestine. She might not want Jed herself but she wouldn’t have everybody saying that you took him away from her!”

  Sue took a long breath. She forced herself to say evenly, “But Camilla, how do you know that that was what Ernestine wanted to say?”

  Camilla shrugged. “What else could it be?” She eyed Sue again and said curiously, “Didn’t Jed tell you a word of that?”

  “I knew they’d quarrelled. I didn’t know all this.”

  Camilla said, “Well, I suppose he wouldn’t tell you. A man hates to admit that a woman has the upper hand. And then after she was shot—well, of course, he’d have sense enough not to tell it then. Judge Shepson wouldn’t have let him. That’s why I didn’t. At the trial, I mean, or when they questioned me, all those police.”

  “Why …” Sue repeated still dazedly and Camilla flashed her an impatient look. “Well, for goodness’ sake, Sue, Jed supports me,” she said with fine simplicity.

  If only Fitz were there to find a clear way through the rapid currents of Camilla’s words; it struck Sue that there was something important, some inquiry that she ought to make and that something Camilla had said had given her an opening. Then she knew what it was, “I wonder what Ernestine was up to.” She met Camilla’s obstinate eyes and made herself arrange words carefully so as not to alarm her into silence.

  “Do you think Ernestine was serious?”

  “Oh, my goodness. Serious! She was furious. If you’d been there at that minute, Sue, I don’t know what she’d have done. I’ve wondered,” Camilla said, “exactly what did happen. But I think I know. I don’t think you meant to do it.”

  Again Sue felt as if dark waters touched her. “You don’t think I meant …”

  “No, of course. Why, you wouldn’t do anything like that in cold blood, Sue. My conscience hasn’t hurt me one bit about not telling what I know. I think that when you came Ernestine was still just so mad she was beside herself; maybe she saw you and Jed meet and go to the cabaña, I don’t know. But I think she just lashed out and she’d got out the gun to threaten, you know, put on an act, and I think you tried to take it away from her or something and it went off and—that’s what I think. But why should I tell it?” Camilla got up and went to the door. “Even when they were going to arrest you and I was here when the sheriff phoned, even if they had arrested you, I’d never have told it. I decided right away: I went home and told Jed about the warrant, he was beside himself. I think he thinks you did it, too, Sue, only he’ll never say so; and I poured myself a stiff drink and took it to my room and I’d finally decided I just never would tell, I could see it would mighty near convict you, and by that time”—her eyes changed, a queer, cold light came into them—“by that time I couldn’t have stopped anything. You were so scared you didn’t know what you were doing. But I’ll never give you a chance.”

  “What …”

  “I mean Dr. Luddington, of course! I was so upset. I hadn’t even heard the car leave; and then to have Jed phone from Dr. Luddington’s and tell me he was shot! It was dreadful—but it was the same as with Ernestine. How would it help for me to tell? But you—I’m not afraid of you because—well, I’m not.”

  “Camilla, I didn’t. That’s horrible …”

  “You didn’t mean to. I could see how it happened. Except I don’t think you ought to have phoned for Jed and dragged him into it—except you were scared …”

  “I tell you, I didn’t. You’ve got to stop …”

  “Oh, he’ll never tell. He’ll always say it was a patient.”

  “It was a patient. You’ve got to believe it. You can’t think such a monstrous …”

  “But I told you. I can see how it happened.”

  “Camilla, suppose I said that to you! Suppose I said I thought you did it! How would you feel?”

  Camilla shrugged, and since she couldn’t reach her boot gave the door sill a rap with her crop, for good measure. And Sue thought irresistibly, Camilla could have done it. She and Ernestine had quarrelled many times; suppose Ernestine had driven Camilla beyond endurance; she had no alibi for the time of Dr. Luddington’s murder; she had said she was alone in her room. Had she a real alibi for the time of Ernestine’s murder? Was there any way in which she could have shot Ernestine and then left the house, without being seen?

  The unexpected hypothesis carried her that far, swiftly before she could stop. And Camilla said coolly, “Nobody thinks I did it. Everybody thinks maybe you did. Especially the police. But I won’t tell anybody ever, if you’ll leave Fitz alone. He—I’m going to marry him, Sue. You can’t stop me. He’s been around here all winter; he was sorry for you and he wanted to help. But I never dreamed of your liking him or—I thought you were in love with Jed. I thought you’d just have to have been in love with him to tell about the cabaña and everything, when all you had to do was go home, as Dr. Luddington told you to do, and nobody would ever have known that you were there at all. Dr. Luddington and Jed wouldn’t have told. But now you act as if you—well, if you ask me you’re just throwing yourself at Fitz Wilson’s head, and you say you won’t marry Jed, and I’m not going to have it. Why, goodness …” a kind of plaintive frankness came into her face. “Why don’t you marry Jed, everybody expects it, and I’ll marry Fitz and we’ll all be happy and just forget all this dreadful thing.”

  It was bewilderingly practical, Camilla-like; it was childish, shrewd, obstinate—and completely ruthless.

  Sue helplessly groped back for the question, the important question. “But Camilla—do you suppose Ernestine really meant to leave Jed? I mean—well, where could she have gone?”

  She said it as casually as she could; she watched Camilla. So she saw the birth of a new and rather startled speculation stir and move back in Camilla’s eyes.

  But she saw, too, when Camilla became aware of her own regard, a guarded look flashed down upon Camilla’s face; she turned, as if absently, yet as if, too, she wished to conceal her own aroused surmise; she stared out of the door, down across the hedge and the lawn. She said, yet in a queerly tangential way, as if what she said only bore upon what she was thinking, “Ernestine was jealous about Fitz and me. That is—Fitz was a better match than Jed. She took Jed away from me and married him and then Fitz came along. And he could have given Ernestine what she really wanted.…”

  “What,” said Sue cautiously, “was that?”

  “Why, you know! Washington, travel, important people. The kind of glitter that Ernestine always wanted. Jed’s happy and content right here; he never wants to do anything else but ride and hunt as long as he has the money to do it. But Fitz …” she took a breath and said in a dreamy and speculative way, “Fitz upset Ernestine—I mean Fitz and me; she wouldn’t have wanted me to make a better match than she did and it made her jealous to think I’d be getting, with Fitz, the kind of life she wanted. Not that Fitz seems to want to live like that but he could if he wanted to. Ruby upset her, too.”

  “Ruby …”

  “With all that money, of course,” said Camilla and opened the door.

  “Wait.…” There were paths of exploration which Camilla had rushed past. “Camilla, what did you do then? I mean after you heard her phone to me that night?”

  Camilla looked surprised, and seemed to fish back. “Why I—oh, I left my door open till she’d finished phoning to you. Then she went back into the garden room but she stopped—and I knew later, not then, she opened the gun cabinet there in the hall. I heard the click when she closed it but, then, I never dreamed she was getting out the gun; I just thought the door of the cabinet had swung open, it does sometimes, and she’d given it a bang to close it as she passed. B
ut then later I realized she’d got out the gun to threaten you with it. She was really in a state. You know her temper.”

  “And then …”

  “Then I finished dressing.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Jed came upstairs before she phoned; he was changing while she talked to you. I heard the shower. Wat and Ruby were going to Fitz’s too.…”

  It was the first time in all the miles of typewritten testimony, typewritten and sworn to, and repeated verbally at the trial, that Sue had heard that. She said: “Were they at Fitz’s too?”

  “Oh, no. But they were going. They’d said they’d call for me. So I waited. I heard Jed go downstairs. Ernestine had dressed early. Very early,” said Camilla, suddenly rather thoughtful. “I don’t know why—but I didn’t hear another sound out of her after she’d phoned to you and gone back to the garden room. Jed slammed down the driveway; my room faces that way, I saw him meet you at the gate and I saw you both go to the cabaña. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  Sue shook her head. Camilla said, “Well, I didn’t tell it. There wasn’t any need. I wasn’t going to tell it, any of it. I was surprised when you did that, Sue—the cabaña! But then, anyway, Wat came for me and I left.”

  “Wat came for you! But I—we didn’t hear his car.”

  Camilla laughed shortly and harshly: “You were in the cabaña with Jed.”

  Another memory of words floated to Sue: Chrisy’s voice saying scornfully, them Duval girls never was no account. She said, “Wat came for you; then you both went to Fitz’s house? Together?”

  Camilla nodded. If there was concealment in her look Sue could not detect it. Then the scene struck her with a chill and dismaying incongruity: they were talking perfectly coolly and quite naturally and were accusing each other of murder—Camilla in so many words, Sue in her thoughts. She had to go on, though; she had to find a loophole, if there was one.

  “Where was Ruby?”