“I’m—I’m lost,” he said huskily and fell on his knees. Crouching there, he looked up at her with wild eyes.
Dazed with shock she didn’t move forward to help him.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, trying to smile. “I’m cold. I can’t move very well. Close the door.”
She went automatically up the steps and closed the door. With the sun shut out the cellar was dim.
“Now come down here again,” the man said, and even though his voice was feeble and he was too ill to stand up, he had authority. She recognized it and came down the steps and stood a few feet away from him, like a child awaiting instructions from an adult.
She saw that he had a very dark skin and black eyes and she knew he was a French-Canadian from his intonations. He wasn’t as tall as she had thought, and a great deal of his bulk was clothing, layers and layers of it.
He began to take it off, holding out his arm to her when he needed help.
“Fingers numb,” he said. “Been out—a long time.”
She pulled his heavy jacket off. She saw him staring at her clothes.
“You live here?” he said.
“No.” She hesitated, wondering how to explain the whole crazy chain of events to a stranger. “No, we’re lost, too. There are quite a few of us here.”
“Who owns the house?”
“A Miss Rudd,” Isobel said. “She’s—she stayed here with her nurse.”
“Sick?”
“No . . . No, she’s a little peculiar,” Isobel said and began to giggle. The man just stared at her and waited until she had stopped.
“I’m sorry,” Isobel said in a muffled voice. “I guess I’ve had—too much excitement.”
“Yes?” He had a sharp alert voice. “What kind?”
“Miss Rudd, and the cat and—and everything. You’d better stay down here in the cellar for a while and I’ll bring you some food and blankets.”
“Yes? Why? Why should I stay here?”
“There’s something in the hall you’d better not see. I mean, I’ll explain everything later . . .”
He put his hand gently on her wrist. “No. Now.”
“It’s—a—a—body.”
“In the hall? A body?” He smiled slightly. “You’re not Miss Rudd yourself, are you?”
She turned her head away. “No. Miss Rudd killed her nurse.”
She felt his recoil and thought, he thinks I’m crazy. She said, “I didn’t want to tell you now. You made me tell you. I know how incredible it sounds.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” he said grimly. “You’re not making this up to get rid of me, are you?”
“I’ll go upstairs and bring you something . . .”
“No, wait.”
She paused at the door and looked back. He was standing up again gazing at her warily.
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
“No. I’ll have to tell the others you’re here. They’ve had so many surprises and one of the women faints . . .”
He brushed her words away with a gesture.
“I’ll come with you,” he said again and walked toward her, limping on one foot. When they came to the stairs he said, “Go up first.”
“No . . .”
“Go up first. I want you in front of me.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“Neither am I,” he said. “That’s why I want you in front of me.”
“How dare you order me around like this?” she said shrilly. “How dare you think I’m—I’m crazy!”
In the kitchen Mrs. Vista said with a sigh: “Miss Seton appears to be shouting about something. Shall we ignore her?”
“Yes. Quite,” said Mr. Goodwin.
“I agree. So much better in the long run. Tea, Anthony?”
Mr. Goodwin took his cup and settled down beside the stove. The door from the cellar opened and Isobel Seton emerged slowly. Her face was white and her hair was wispy and she looked at Mr. Goodwin with glassy eyes.
“Look what I found,” she said in a low voice.
“You found something?” Mr. Goodwin said. “Well, well.”
He stared with his mouth open as Isobel proceeded through the kitchen, followed by the limping man. They went out into the hall and the man turned and shut the door again carefully. He had barely glanced at Mrs. Vista and Mr. Goodwin.
“Extraordinary,” said Mr. Goodwin hollowly.
“Most unconventional,” Mrs. Vista agreed.
“Makes one doubt the senses, don’t you think?”
“You’re quite right,” Mrs. Vista said thoughtfully. “And once one doubts the senses what is there left for one?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Goodwin, and sipped his tea.
Outside the door the man had stopped and grabbed Isobel’s hand.
He said, “This is the hall, is it?”
Isobel nodded wordlessly.
“Do you see any body?”
“No,” Isobel said in a strangled whisper.
“Did you ever see it?”
“It was there. Someone must have—taken it away.”
“What is this game?” the man said quietly. “If you simply want to get rid of me I’ll be delighted to leave. Have I accidentally stumbled on an insane asylum?”
“Mr. Crawford must have put the body some place. He was waiting for it to thaw.”
“To what?”
“Thaw. It was frozen.”
The man stared at her a moment, his face strained and puzzled.
“Madame,” he said, “you were correct. The cellar’s the place for me. I shall stay long enough to get warm. And don’t bother coming with me. I can find my way.”
He turned.
“You imbecile!” Isobel hissed. “Can’t you see the water on the floor? That’s where she was lying. Mr. Crawford was just waiting for her to . . .”
“Thaw.” Crawford’s voice whipped down the hall. He was standing in the library doorway, still holding the brandy bottle.
There was a sudden screaming silence, then Crawford’s voice again, calm and dry:
“Isobel, you’re being true to me yet? Or can’t you help yourself?”
The man coughed and said, “Sir, I am sorry to disturb you but I was lost and came upon this house. I think my foot is partially frozen.”
In spite of his words there was the same air of authority about him that Isobel had found disconcerting. He didn’t sound sorry, but challenging, and his intense gaze, fixed on Crawford, was half-puzzled, half-insolent.
Crawford began to walk towards them. He wore the ugly little smile that was now familiar to Isobel, and his eyelids were flickering.
“Yeah?” he said. “Your foot’s frozen?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“What do you want me to do, amputate it?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” the man said coolly. “All I require is some food and shelter for a time. You seem to be a stranger in these parts. No doubt you are unfamiliar with the laws of French-Canadian hospitality.”
Isobel didn’t like the way they were looking at each other. She said hastily, “Of course. I’ll see about the food . . .”
Crawford’s voice cut in. “Is that a fact? Maybe I’m not interested in the laws of French-Canadian hospitality. Maybe I don’t care if your foot falls off at the hip.”
“I do, however.” The man held out his hand to Crawford. “My name is Dubois. Rene Dubois. Perhaps you have heard of me?”
Crawford took the hand but didn’t shake it. He looked at it, turning it over as if it were a piece of fish.
“Can’t say I have,” he said in a bored voice.
The man’s eyes were hard and glittering. “You are too old to learn politeness, Monsieur, but not too young to see that it is sometimes necessary t
o feign it. I am feigning it. Be so good as to do the same.”
Crawford said nothing, but he looked sulky.
“Who are you?” Isobel said quickly.
“You are not interested in skiing?” Dubois said, smiling. “I am a cross-country endurance skier. Unfortunately the blizzard caught me yesterday and I was forced to abandon some of my equipment and spend the night in a maple sugar shed.”
Crawford had another lightning mood change. He said easily, “Don’t let this fellow win you away from me with mere words. I, too, can ski.”
“Give him the rest of the brandy,” Isobel said sharply. “Here, Mr. Dubois. You’d better take off your shoe. Come into the sitting room.”
“I rarely drink,” Dubois said, “but on this occasion, I think I might.”
“I might have known it,” Crawford said and handed him the bottle. “On two bottles of this stuff you’ll be able to ski in the fourth dimension, but I hope you get all my diseases.”
Dubois drank from the bottle. He was completely at ease. Neither Crawford’s cracks nor Isobel’s fluttering ministrations made a dent in his self-assurance. He followed Isobel into the sitting room and even while he limped, his walk had something swaggering about it.
He sat down and took off his one shoe and sock and examined his foot.
“It is not frozen,” he said.
“Gee, I’m glad,” Crawford said elaborately.
Isobel said, “I didn’t put coal on the furnace, Mr. Crawford. Would you oblige?”
“You always win eventually, don’t you?” Crawford said sadly and went out.
“He is a strange fellow,” Dubois said, tying up his shoe again.
“If you think he’s strange, wait until you meet the rest of them.”
“I must apologize to you, Madame.”
“Isobel Seton.”
“Miss Seton, I must apologize for doubting your word.”
“That’s all right,” Isobel said. “I doubt it myself sometimes. Would you prefer to have your food here or go in the dining room with the others?”
“Here,” Dubois said, showing a row of glistening white teeth. “I shall feel better able to meet the strange people after I have eaten.”
Isobel went back into the kitchen. Mrs. Vista greeted her vaguely.
“My dear, that was a man you had with you, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” Isobel said. “May I give him some of your tea?”
“A little, perhaps. Where did you find him? Really, how extraordinary going down into a cellar and finding a man. It’s never happened to me. But then, I rarely visit cellars.”
“This is the first time I have ever found a man in a cellar,” Isobel said coldly. “Where is the bread?”
“Over there,” Mrs. Vista said, with a sweep of her hand.
Isobel cut bread and buttered it and put some marmalade in a dish while Mrs. Vista followed her about the kitchen. Mrs. Vista said that human adjustments were extraordinary, really. At first she was utterly confused when she saw the man, she confessed, but now she had adjusted to him.
“Frightfully handsome, in a rugged way, wasn’t he, Anthony?”
Mr. Goodwin’s adjustments came slower, apparently, for he said he didn’t remember.
“I think,” said Mrs. Vista, “that a new face is just what we required in this house. One tires of the old faces, though I find mobile faces less tiring than still faces. I think Anthony has a very mobile face.”
Mr. Goodwin obligingly grimaced.
“See, Miss Seton?” Mrs. Vista said. “That’s what I mean. Mobility. I feel it’s everything in a face.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Isobel said with an appraising glance at Mr. Goodwin. She picked up the dishes and as she passed Mr. Goodwin, she said, “Give it a rest, brother. Nobody’s looking at you but God.”
She swept out the door and kicked it shut with her foot. I must not talk like Crawford, she told herself sternly, I must ignore Crawford, Crawford is a louse.
“Yoo hoo,” said a voice from the stairs, and Gracie Morning’s face appeared over the banister.
She was looking, Isobel noticed, very pretty and neat. Her hair was a halo of bronze ringlets and her face was freshly made up.
Isobel stopped still.
“Where’s Miss Rudd?”
“Miss Rudd?” Gracie said, swinging down the steps. “Oh, yes. Well, I looked for her but she wasn’t around so I decided to fix myself up a bit in case we’re rescued. I was a wreck, no kidding.”
“You mean you didn’t even find her?”
“That’s what I said,” Gracie said pleasantly. “Don’t throw a fit. She’ll be all right.”
“She’ll be all right!” Isobel cried. “What about us? We thought you had her upstairs, we thought you were keeping her quiet up there!”
“How could I keep her quiet if I couldn’t find her?” Gracie asked reasonably.
“You let her out. It’s your responsibility to find her again. She’s dangerous. Don’t you understand?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking it over and I decided that I was right in the first place. She’s not dangerous.” Gracie arranged herself comfortably on the bottom step and smoothed her skirt over her thighs. “I decided that she didn’t kill Floraine at all.”
“Indeed?” Isobel said ominously. “Who killed her?”
“Nobody,” Gracie said with a bright look.
“Indeed?”
“Don’t keep saying, indeed. It’s so silly. All you have to do is think about it and it all comes clear. Floraine wasn’t murdered at all. She committed suicide because she was crazy.”
“She was crazy,” Isobel said. “Go on. Miss Rudd is perfectly sane, of course.”
“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Gracie said cautiously. “But she’s not as crazy as Floraine was. You see, I got to thinking about my aunt again. Then I thought about my uncle, my aunt’s husband. And anyway, it turned out that he was crazy just from being around her. So I think that’s what happened to Floraine. She felt herself slipping and decided to end it all.”
Gracie got up and brushed off her skirt. “Do you think we ought to go and tell the others now? They”ll feel better.”
“I don’t think they will,” Isobel said sadly. “I think they”ll feel much, much worse. You keep it to yourself, Gracie.”
“Sure, if you really think I ought to.”
“You ought to,” Isobel said.
“I’m certainly glad I figured it out. We can let Miss Rudd do as she likes. Imagine—for a minute there I was scared of her, seeing that foot sticking out of the snow. Boy, was I nuts!”
“Boy,” Isobel said, “are you nuts.”
She turned away and began walking, not too steadily, towards the sitting room.
Gracie called after her. “Say, are you having lunch already?”
“No, I’m taking this food to a man. I found a man.”
“That’s swell,” Gracie said enthusiastically. “I knew you could do it, even at your age. Which one is it?”
12
When she returned to the sitting room Isobel found Dubois sitting where she’d left him, but there was a studied casualness in the way he sat that made Isobel believe he had been up and around examining the house. Under the circumstances he was far too self-assured, cross-country skier or not.
He had taken off his hat and Isobel saw that his hair was clipped very short and was black and curly.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin and smiled at Isobel. “You are welcome, Miss Seton.”
“I’m sorry there’s not much variety here, but I can’t cook.”
“Can’t you?” he said, still smiling, but his eyes were watchful.
She put the dishes on the floor beside him and said, “You remind me of someone.”
He waved a pi
ece of bread gaily. “I am constantly reminding someone of someone. I fear I am a type. Perhaps that is why Mr. Crawford dislikes me.”
“Mr. Crawford doesn’t need an excuse to dislike anyone,” Isobel said. “He has a creative impulse for trouble.”
He continued to eat, hungrily, but delicately, picking the crumbs from his lap and tossing them into the fire. From one corner of the room a radiator began to clatter and bang. Dubois’ hand poised rigidly in mid-air for a moment, then went on with the crumb gathering.
It made Isobel nervous and she started to fidget. He stopped immediately and looked up at her.
“I see you have been under a strain,” he said with sympathy.
“Yes.”
“You are from the city?”
“New York.”
“You have come a long way, not in actual miles, but in other things. French Canada is no doubt strange to you?”
“If what’s happened to me is a sample,” Isobel said grimly, “French Canada is a very strange country.”
“Your experiences have been unusual?”
“Terrific is the word.”
“Oh?” He nodded wisely, waiting for her to continue.
“I get on a bus and the bus driver walks off into a blizzard. Exit permanent. I get out of the bus and am shot at. I go into a house and find an insane woman and a sinister nurse. Exit the nurse. Very permanent.”
“Ah yes, the body. Mr. Crawford took it into the other room?”
“The library,” Isobel said. She frowned suddenly, and thought, why the library? He knew I wanted to go in there. Is he trying to keep me out?
Dubois said, “You distrust Mr. Crawford?”
“I don’t feel one way or the other about him,” Isobel said. “I have no reason to trust any of these people. I have never seen them before, except a picture of Mr. Goodwin in a newspaper once.”
Picture in a newspaper. There was something queer about the phrase which gnawed at her mind. There was something about a picture in a newspaper . . .
Dubois was talking again and she turned her attention back to him.
“. . . any reason to suspect that the nurse was murdered? May it not have been an accident of some kind?”
Fire Will Freeze Page 13
