Standing behind her, Francis munched chocolates.
She wrote down that everything she had must belong to her beloved guardian, Luther Grandison. She finished it. She signed it.
Francis nodded. “Good,” he said.
She looked up into his eyes. They didn’t seem anything but clear and friendly. “If you’ll just hide it,” he said. “Please, Tyl. And tell a stranger. But only a stranger. What harm can that do? Call it a whim. Call it anything. Give me that little bit of trust or take it for a little bit of advice that can’t hurt you.”
She thought she could feel the warmth of his presence close above her. The moment crystallized, as some moments will, and for just that while she was aware of the whole setting—herself at the desk with the light falling on her hands, the paper under them, white against the rosy blotter, the green pen lying there. All the background was in her mind, as if she could see it too. The gray walls around them, the furniture, the bed with its yellow spread, its soft pale yellow silken quilt, the hollow in the pillow where her head had been.
And she heard the silence of the house beyond the room’s walls. She was aware of the deserted gardens outside, below, and of the globe of the world turning through the dark toward dawn.
And in the core of the moment was the warmth of his presence, where he stood just behind her, looking down over her shoulder easily, not touching her and yet surrounding her as if there were a shield at her back.
She said, “All right. I’ll hide it.”
Where had her wrath gone? Where was the stubborn conflict and clash of wills? Mathilda tilted her head, looked up and back. She smiled.
He bent and kissed her warmly, heartily, like a brother, like a friend. An endearing kiss, it asked for nothing. It congratulated her.
Then he put a handful of chocolates in his pocket. “These are good,” he said. “Good night.” For the second, he hesitated, as if he wondered what to call her. Dear, or what? He touched her shoulder. “Thanks, pal,” he said.
Then he put one long leg out the window absurdly, as if he were getting into a pair of trousers. His face grinned at her a last moment over the sill. She heard faint scrambling noises. He was gone.
She put the window down, stepped quickly back and away from it. She didn’t want him to see her watching, if he should look back. Because, of course, she wasn’t watching.
She had the new will in her hand. She folded it small. She locked about for a place. A little hanging shelf near the bed had some books in it. She took one down, a thin book of poetry—Lucile—in a cardboard case. She put her piece of paper inside, between the book and its case. It wasn’t a very good hiding place, but it would do.
Mathilda undressed, got into bed. She told herself that when the light was out she would lie and think things through. She would start at the beginning and be clear about everything. She would try to organize the facts, make some sense out of what had been happening. She would try to understand with her brain, instead of feeling about in the confusion with a straining heart. Instead of drifting in and out of people’s arms. She thought, What a way to behave. She must—must be clear.
But once the light was off and she lay snug under the yellow comforter, Mathilda fell immediately asleep.
In the morning, she was surprised to find that the door of her room had been locked all night. It wasn’t her habit to lock her door. It made her a little ashamed to think she’d forgotten. Because, of course, it was Francis who had locked it, and she’d simply forgotten.
21
Grandy pushed the button; the gadget operated. Francis opened the study door from the living room and came in. He crossed easily to the visitor’s chair and sat down. Jane, at her little desk in the corner, kept the rhythm of her typing steady, but the sense of the line she had been typing dissolved into a jumble of meaningless letters, as if she’d suddenly begun to type in code.
Grandy had a cigarette in his holder. He pushed papers fretfully away and leaned on his folded hands. He inquired after Francis’ health this morning.
Francis said, “I want to talk to you.”
“By all means,” said Grandy with some curiosity.…“Jane—”
“I’d like Jane to stay, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” Grandy took the holder out of his mouth and fingered it delicately. He waited.
“Because,” said Francis, “I’d like a disinterested person to hear what I am going to say.”
“Would you like Jane to take notes?” said Grandy charmingly, obligingly. “She does shorthand very well.”
Francis was not diverted. “I came to tell you that you are no longer unsuspected,” he said quietly. “And murder’s too much, you know, to excuse, even in one who has been so kind.”
Grandy’s interested expression remained unchanged, unless he looked even more interested. “Please do go on,” he said in enchanted tones, as if this were the very thing he had needed to stimulate and excite him.
“When Rosaleen Wright hanged herself that winter morning,” said Francis coolly, “she knocked over a lamp, uprooted some wires and blew a fuse.”
“So Tom Gahagen was telling me,” said Grandy amiably. One would think they approached a puzzle together.
“Your clock on the mantel just beyond that wall was stopped. The time was twenty minutes after ten.”
Grandy shifted in his chair. “Yes, yes. All this we know. What’s the significance?”
“Althea was in the kitchen that morning?”
“Yes. Certainly. Althea was in the kitchen.”
“So were you, Mr. Grandison.”
“So was I,” he agreed benignly.
“You entered the kitchen,” said Francis slowly, “by that door, from this room, at ten thirty-five.”
“Whatever makes you think so?”
“You see what it means if that is true?”
Grandy’s mouth flattened, expressing distaste. “Something very nasty,” he said. “Very nasty.” He cocked his head. “Do you follow him, Jane?”
Jane felt a trickle of perspiration down her back. “I don’t—no, I don’t, sir,” she faltered. Her eyes were round as saucers and she looked frightened.
“Really a horrible idea,” said Grandy thoughtfully. “That she hanged herself before my eyes, eh? While I watched?”
Francis shrugged.
“Oh, I see!” cried Grandy. “Dear me, I hanged her!”
“The odd part of it is,” said Francis, “that you did, and I can prove it.”
“That would be very odd indeed,” said Grandy. “How?”
“Oh, not the icebox light.” Francis tossed this at him. But Grandy’s head did not tremble from its bright, interested pose. “Althea told me and one other person, who will remember what was said and so testify.” Francis hesitated. “You see you killed Althea a trifle too late.”
“So,” said Grandy rather more heavily, “Althea too? My lovely girl, the one I’ve lost.”
Jane let out a childish whimper. Grandy looked across at her. “My dear,” he said tenderly, “can you bear to hear the rest of this? I’d like you to. Try not to feel. Just listen to the words.”
Jane bent her head.
“Now,” said Grandy, turning to Francis, his eyes glinting, “proceed, Mr. Howard.”
Francis thought, Jane’s fooled him. He’s acting for Jane. He marshaled his attack.
“Althea turned the radio up, if you remember—or even if you don’t”—Francis caught and controlled his temper—“at precisely the moment you entered the kitchen and closed that door. She was struck by a phrase said over the air. She remembered it clearly. That program was recorded at the time, Mr. Grandison. It gives away the exact minute. The minute you left this room. And that minute was ten thirty-five. Not earlier.”
Grandy said, “My dear boy.” He said it gently, with pity. “When did Althea tell you this?”
“The evening—the night she died.”
“What a day and a night you’ve had since.” Grandy sp
oke softly. “That is, if she really did—or even if you, for any reason, believe this story.”
Francis found his throat unmanageable. The evil old bird was so full of pity. He was turning it, pretending to be seeing a point of view. He was not worried, not even looking worried. He was not reacting according to plan. The scene wasn’t going right. A guilty man, accused, had no business to look so sorry for his accuser, so successfully sorry.
Grandy said, as if to be fair, “After all, you are nearly a stranger here. But even so, dear boy, what reason do you imagine I would have had for such a deed as that?” Then, almost gaily, “Come, Mr. Howard, I must have a motive.”
“My wife’s money,” said Francis, “was and is your motive.”
“Eh?”
“You played around with it. Rosaleen Wright found out.”
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” Grandy took off his pince-nez and rubbed his eyes. “Yes?” he said. The black eyes were brimming with mirthful tears. “But Mathilda isn’t your wife at all, Mr. Howard. You see, we know that.”
Francis heard Jane’s gasp. Oh, good girl, Jane. He said aloud, coldly, “Would you be willing to let me or anyone examine the records of the Frazier fortune?”
“Certainly,” said Grandy. “This does seem so silly. As for Althea’s story, what occurs to me, Mr. Howard, is the thought that Althea told no story. I think you invented it.”
“Two of us invented it?”
“That’s not impossible,” said Grandy smoothly. “Who is your—er—corroborator?”
“In view of my opinion of you,” said Francis evenly, “I don’t believe I care to say.”
Grandy leaned back. “You don’t mean it,” he challenged. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m serious.”
“Isn’t it too bad,” said Grandy in a moment, “that Althea isn’t here to help us? Oh, I see! I see! That’s why I’m supposed to have done her in? Well, really, that’s not unsound. That’s good thriller-level reasoning, Mr. Howard.”
Francis bit on his cheek. “Also,” he said, struggling to stay calm and seem confident, “there is Rosaleen’s false suicide note. Cribbed out of an old book. What did you do? Ask her to copy it one day?”
Grandy’s face fell. “Poor Rosaleen. Poor child,” he crooned. “I didn’t like to point out what she’d done. Poor sick little mind! Did we delve too much, I wonder, into old crimes and ancient madness?”
“Sick mind, my eye!” Francis shot up out of his chair. “And Althea was sick, too, wasn’t she? Although nobody saw any signs of it but you. What will Mathilda be when her time comes? Or anybody else you decide to get rid of? Let me show you something now.” He slammed the paper down on the desk, keeping his palm on it. “That’s Mathilda’s will. And I warn you, see to it that Mathilda doesn’t die! Because, if she does, I don’t think you’ll care to have me and my lawyers going into financial history.”
Grandy’s eyes flickered. Francis held his breath, but the old man’s hand was steady. He touched the paper. He read it He took off his pince-nez and looked up.
“A forgery,” he said softly. Brown eyes met black. Jane in her corner trembled.
“Do I see it all now?” mused Grandy, cocking his head. “Did you think she was lost at sea? Did you think you’d cut a piece of money with your fantastic story? I can understand so far, yes, indeed. But what are you up to now? Ah! Am I to pay you for suppressing your little ideas?”
Francis could have wrung his skinny neck. Might have done so, indeed, if Jane hadn’t cried out.
“There now, you’ve frightened Jane,” said Grandy in pouting reproach. There was no breaking there, no self-betrayal, no guilty squirm, no fear in this man. He was untouched, bland, confident, and the voice was sirup-smooth. Francis knew himself to be too angry to think, to have been outdone in self-control, and outbluffed.
He turned and said stiffly to Jane, “I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He said to Grandy, as quietly as he could, “I’ll take my little ideas to Gahagen, then.”
“Dear boy,” said Grandy warmly, “if you believe all that nonsense, you most certainly should go to Gahagen or someone. Besides,” he added ruefully, “although for my part, I only wish I could help you—I’m afraid you do need help rather badly—still, I did rather promise Tyl to kick you out the door.”
Francis said, “Don’t bother, Mr. Grandison.” He left the room.
When he had gone, Jane thought, For my life, for my life. She twisted her hands, filled her china-blue eyes with horror. “Oh, Mr. Grandison, wasn’t he awful?”
“Poor chap,” said Grandy. “The fellow’s a fraud, of course. My poor Tyl—”
“Oh, Mr. Grandison!” cried Jane, for her life. “Nobody’s going to believe anything he says! He was just trying to make trouble!”
“And well he may make trouble,” said Grandy. He put his hands to his forehead wearily. “Run, fetch me some coffee, my dear. That’s a good girl. Yes, do.”
“Oh, Mr. Grandison!” quavered Jane, still acting for her life. “I can’t tell you how sorry I feel that you have to be bothered—”
She got out the door and stood trying to control a fit of nervous shaking.
Grandy drew over his desk phone, gave a number. “Press?… Ah, my dear fellow, there is something I’d like you to do for me.… Yes, I thought you would.” Then his voice cracked like a whip, “This must be quick. Do you understand?”
“Whatever you say,” said the man on the other end hopelessly.
22
When Mathilda got down to the kitchen for her breakfast, there was only Oliver. He was sitting over a saucer full of cigarette butts.
“Where’s everybody?” she asked.
“In with Grandy.”
“Oh.” Mathilda got herself coffee from the stove. She hoped it was good and strong. She had awakened in a cold sweat. She wondered if she was coming down with something. She felt numb and confused and as if a lowering cloud hung over the world, something black and terrifying, ominous, threatening, as if there was worse to come. Perhaps it was only that Althea was dead.
Oliver was lighting another cigarette. He glanced at her nervously as she sat down. “The funeral is this afternoon,” he blurted out “They’ve released the body. Grandy says get it over with.”
Mathilda shivered. What could she say? Nothing to say. It was simply stupid to open your mouth and say, “I’m sorry.” Oliver put out his cigarette and lit another. He didn’t seem to know he was doing so.
“This accident stuff is all right for publication,” he blurted, “but it wasn’t any accident.”
“What do you mean, Oliver?” Tyl put out her hand and touched his. She did feel sorry for him. There must be a way to let him know it.
“Because she must have eaten them! Eaten them!”
“Eaten what?”
“Those pills. By the handful.”
“The sleeping dope?”
“Yes, because, listen, Tyl, Doctor Madison knows damn well how she used to love to take a lot of junk. He fixed her up with some extra-mild ones. He told me so, when I worried about it. He knew she’d take too many, too often. He said the effect was mostly psychological, anyhow. Tyl, for her to die, she must have eaten a whole bottle. So she must have wanted to die. Don’t you see?”
“I can’t believe—”
“You’d better believe it.”
“Oliver, you didn’t have any stronger pills in there, did you?”
“Never touch the junk. No. Nothing.”
Mathilda shook her head. She could feel the cloud, that heavy, depressing, shadowing bulk that seemed to exist in the back of her consciousness, ready to come down and swallow her up in despair. She was afraid. She drank more coffee hastily.
“I can’t stop going over that fight we had.” Oliver stared at her with reddened eyes. “I can’t stop.”
“You mustn’t do that,” said Tyl. She, herself, felt that this was an unsupported statement. If he had asked why not, she couldn’t have answered.
“I know,” he said. “I know, but I can’t stop. ‘Burn tenderly.’ What does that mean to you?”
“What does what mean?”
“‘Burn tenderly.’”
“I don’t know. I never heard such a thing.”
“Wouldn’t you guess it was love stuff? Wouldn’t you think it came out of some lousy poem? Or some fancy speech in the movies? ‘My heart burns tenderly.’”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“What’s the matter? Why are you worrying about that?”
Oliver put his head down, and for once his forelock fell over his eyes without the self-conscious boyishness with which he had been known to let it fall. “Althea wouldn’t talk that night. Night before last. Not at first. She just wouldn’t talk to me at all. But then she laughed and said that out loud. I don’t think she meant to, but she said, ‘Burn tenderly.’ Tyl, I thought she and Francis must have been talking that way—you know, love stuff. Reading each other poems or something. I was mad. I told her what I thought. I said that proved it. She tried to tell me it was something some cook had said on the radio.”
“Cook?”
“Yeah. Do you believe it?”
“I don’t … know.”
“I asked her how she’d happened to remember some dumb thing a cook said on the radio, especially at a time like that. She had a story. She said it was because she turned the radio up in the middle of a program. She’d turned it down on account of Grandy coming in, and then she turned it up, and the guy said those two words just out of a clear silence. It sounded funny. She said she’d been telling Francis about it.”
“Telling Francis?”
“Do you believe that?”
“It sounds crazy.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Why should she be telling Francis what some cook said on the radio?”
“Yeah, that’s what I wondered. I think—I still think—Oh, I don’t know what I think. Suppose she did carry on with him. Tyl, I’m sorry.” His eyes looked desperate. He was lost in this anguish of new honesty.
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