Fire Will Freeze

by Margaret Millar

  “Hush,” he said. “This is hardly death. She is warm and soft and happy.”

  “No, no, don’t talk like that. She was killed—killed!”

  “Yes. The bruises on her neck,” he said, but he still looked dreamy. “She is not like the other one. She died easily, perhaps gladly.”

  “Someone closed her eyes afterward,” Isobel whispered. She looked again at Miss Rudd and for a moment she saw her as Mr. Goodwin saw her, as a child who should have died before and was glad to die now. But she said again, “No, no! Someone killed her! I can’t see it as you do.”

  Mr. Goodwin straightened and closed the lid of the trunk, and once the lid was closed he seemed to change back to what he had been. The change was so sudden and so intense that Isobel thought, that’s the first glimpse I’ve ever had of him, the first sight backstage behind the curtains.

  “Frightful,” he said in his old voice and walked upstairs ahead of her, muttering to himself.

  Crawford was waiting in the kitchen and when he saw Isobel’s face he didn’t have to be told that Miss Rudd had been found.

  He said, “Dead?”

  “Yes,” Isobel said.

  “How?”

  “Strangled.”

  “With a rope?”

  “No,” Isobel said huskily. “With fingers.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t touch her.”

  “She was still warm,” Mr. Goodwin said. He went away, looking impatient because death had interfered and made him step out of character.

  Crawford looked down at Isobel. “You know what this means?”

  “Yes.”

  “One of us killed her. One of us killed Floraine.”

  “Yes.” She stirred under his steady gaze.

  “I think now you were right,” he said. “We must try and get help. One of us will have to try it.”

  “Mr. Dubois . . .”

  “Can we trust Dubois?” Crawford said.

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “I don’t. He might go off and not come back and not send anyone for us. How do we know he came here by accident?”

  “Someone could go with him,” Isobel said. “There are the snowshoes and Dubois could ski slowly, perhaps. We’ll have to trust him. And even if—if we can’t—you have a gun.”

  “A gun?”

  “You could take the snowshoes. If you had the gun he wouldn’t try to leave you behind. You could shoot at him.”

  He said, “Well,” with a grim little smile.

  Isobel flushed and said, “I meant, as a last resort. What do you carry a gun for if you look so shocked when someone suggests using it?”

  “Not shocked. Surprised. At you.”

  “I don’t care. Something has to be done.”

  “I’ve never been on snowshoes,” he said.

  “Yes, but it’s a bright day and not noon yet. And surely Dubois will know something about directions if he’s really a skier.”

  “If.”

  “And there’s no one else who can go with him. You know that.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Crawford said. “If he refuses to talk shall I shoot him?”

  “Don’t joke about it.”

  “I’m not,” he said dryly.

  When he had gone she stood for a minute staring blindly at the floor. Then she turned and walked slowly into the dining room.

  Mr. Goodwin had said nothing about finding Miss Rudd, for the others were still speculating on where she could be.

  He’s a coward, Isobel thought, he’s left it to me. And I won’t tell them, I won’t . . .

  But then Joyce looked up with a malicious little smile and said, “Well. Where’s the loot?” And Isobel found herself saying, “In the cellar. She was in the cellar.”

  “But we looked all over the cellar,” Paula said, frowning.

  “Not in the trunks.”

  “Trunks?” Gracie repeated. “But you told me before they were empty!”

  “They were,” Isobel said, “before.”

  “You mean she’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you,” Gracie said hoarsely into the silence that followed. “I told you she wouldn’t hurt anything. She was a harmless old lady. She never hurt anything.”

  Gracie began to weep quietly. Everyone else seemed incapable of moving or talking.

  “I knew,” Gracie said, her voice muffled with a handkerchief. “I knew it wasn’t her that killed the cat. She wouldn’t have put it on my bed. She liked me. She—she even gave me a present.”

  “Who killed it then?” Isobel said quietly.

  “Floraine. She did it. She wanted to make sure we went away. She wanted to get rid of us by scaring us.”

  I believe her, Isobel thought. I believe Floraine killed the cat.

  Why was she so anxious to get rid of us? Was she afraid we’d find the bus driver? Was she afraid of one of us? Was she expecting someone to come here that she didn’t want us to see?

  Of course. Dubois.

  She was waiting for Dubois. And when he came Floraine was dead.

  And who had killed her?

  Isobel looked around at them, one after another: Gracie crying behind her handkerchief, Maudie twisting her thin hands, Mrs. Vista whispering to Mr. Goodwin, Herbert and Mr. Hunter grave and pompous in the face of death but utterly unmoved, Chad Ross, in a corner with Paula and Joyce, far too unhappy at his own plight to think about Miss Rudd.

  Gracie was talking again. “I knew Floraine killed the cat because she shot at us, trying to keep us away.”

  “Funny,” Isobel said, frowning. “Why didn’t she keep on shooting?”

  “She didn’t want to kill anyone, just to scare us off.”

  “Or gain time,” Isobel said. “She delayed us fifteen minutes at least that way, long enough to get rid of the bus driver.”

  “Oh, stop this gruesome talk,” Maudie cried. “I can’t bear it.”

  “If you want to go up to your room,” Isobel said clearly, “there’s nothing to stop you now. Miss Rudd is dead.”

  “When one looks at it in an impersonal light,” said Mrs. Vista, “Miss Rudd’s death improves the situation. We can now move freely about the house, confident that no one will spring at us.”

  “Can we?” Isobel said.

  “What a pessimist you are!” Mrs. Vista said acidly. “Who else is there to spring at one?”

  “With Floraine and Miss Rudd both dead, it leaves things among ourselves, doesn’t it?”

  Mrs. Vista frowned and turned to Mr. Goodwin. “She’s an uncomfortable woman, Anthony. I feel it best to ignore her in word, thought and deed.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, quite,” said Mr. Goodwin.

  At any other time Isobel might have laughed at Mrs. Vista but the woman’s attitude, more than her words, whipped up Isobel’s rage. She faced her.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that you are as likely a suspect as the rest of us, you could have killed both of them?”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Mrs. Vista said feebly, but she moved uneasily under Isobel’s stare.

  “And that goes for all of us,” Isobel added. “Mr Crawford is trying to arrange to go and get help for us. We can’t stay here together another night.”

  “Well, who on earth wants to?” Paula said.

  “You do,” Joyce said sweetly.

  “Oh, dry up,” Chad said, “both of you.” He turned to Isobel. “Why Crawford? And how’s he going to get help?”

  Isobel explained, but before she had finished Crawford himself appeared and said that his arrangements with Dubois were completed. They would leave directly after lunch, as Dubois said he wasn’t able to leave immediately.

  Isobel went over to Crawford and whispered, “How did he ta
ke it?”

  “All right. Seemed anxious to oblige, in fact. He’s asleep again.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I feel swell,” Crawford said dryly. “There’s nothing like the prospect of being frozen to death to cheer you up. How would the ladies like to rustle up a little food for the hero?”

  “What hero?” Chad said.

  “Me, Redhead. And if I didn’t want to conserve my energy . . .”

  “Sure, sure. You’re tough.”

  “Maybe I don’t need to conserve my energy,” Crawford said slowly. “Come over here and let’s find out.”

  Isobel deftly stepped into Chad’s path. She said severely, “Don’t look for trouble, Mr. Ross. No more personal feuds. We want to get out of this place sometime today.”

  Spurred on by the hope of rescue, most of the ladies moved into the kitchen. Paula stayed in her corner, looking white and angry. When Chad came over to her she flung off his hand from her arm.

  “Don’t be loathsome,” she said. “And childish. And stupid.”

  Chad smiled wryly. “It’s a tall order, but I’ll try. Why so glum? I thought you’d be very glad to get out of here and back to Mamma.”

  “I shall.”

  “Cheer up. I won’t track you down. This time.”

  “That’s obvious. You’re already making a fool of yourself over that girl.”

  “Why not?” Chad said. “Do you think I’m going to sit around until Mamma Lashley decides I’m worthy? Of course technically we’re married, and I could be damned unpleasant over a divorce.”

  “There won’t have to be a divorce,” Paula said. “We haven’t—that is, we haven’t . . .”

  “No, we haven’t, have we? Lack of opportunity? Or lack of female hormones?”

  “Don’t be vulgar.”

  “Yes, it’s a vulgar subject. Mamma taught you all about it, sure. All Men Are Beasts, that sort of thing. And besides, think what you’d be giving up if you stayed with me. What’s your allowance, two hundred a month? Well, in three weeks I’ll be in the army and my allowance will be about one-quarter of that.”

  Paula turned her face away.

  “So looking at it from every angle,” Chad continued, “you’re a wise, wise girl. I’m the dumb bunny. I looked at it from just one angle—I loved you and I was going away.”

  “I can’t stand it,” Paula said in a low voice.

  “What can’t you stand?”

  “Your going away.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Chad said, in exasperation. “You can’t stand me and you can’t stand my going away. Make up your mind. Just give me a clue. That’s all I ask, one single clue to the maze that passes for your mind.”

  Paula held her head high. “You needn’t insult my mind. There’s nothing the matter with my mind, but I can’t help thinking of alternatives. I mean, I’m like Hamlet.”

  “So you’re like Hamlet. I’m glad you put it like that. It clears the air nicely. All is now explained. All right, go ahead with the divorce, annulment, or whatever you want. I’ve had the shortest marriage in history, anyway, and that’s something.”

  Paula looked at him, tearful and angry.

  “You aren’t being fair to me. I didn’t want to run off like this and get married. I wanted to make Mother see . . .”

  “You tried that before. Twice. Don’t you ever catch on? She doesn’t object to me personally. It’s all men, all the men who might take her little Paula away from her. No, Paula. You’re stuck. You’re glued to her for the rest of your life. You’re the virgin sacrifice on Mamma’s altar.”

  “Why, you’re mad! Mother is one of the most charming, civilized, cultured people in the world!”

  “What’s the use of talking?” Chad said quietly. “There’s only one word for your mother and you know what it is.”

  He went out and she could hear him going upstairs, not stamping up as he had before, but quietly as if he’d made his decision and was calm about it.

  Paula remained in the chair. Her face felt stiff and her throat ached because she wanted to cry and didn’t know how. It was one of the things her mother had taught her, not to cry, to be self-controlled and poised. If you didn’t lose your temper you had the upper hand . . .

  Who wants the upper hand? Paula thought desperately. I’d rather cry and scream, I don’t want to be frozen like this!

  She called “Chad!” but he didn’t hear her, or if he did he paid no attention.

  She thought, he may be right about everything else, about me, too, but not about Mother. She’s the nicest person in the world. Even Father admits that.

  Every year on her birthday Paula received a check and some phrase like, “Your mother is a remarkable woman.” Paula remembered her father as a thin, gently ironic man.

  She wondered suddenly if the remarks about her mother had been ironic. All these years he may have been throwing out hints, Paula thought. No, that’s impossible. Mother is a remarkable woman. She’s understanding, and calm and detached . . .

  And cold, she thought suddenly. She’s cold. She’s detached because she doesn’t get emotionally involved, and calm because nothing touches her. Not even me, or my happiness—or Father . . .

  Joyce came back into the room. “I’ve been crowded out of the kitchen,” she said. “Where’s Chad?”

  “How should I know?” Paula said distantly.

  “I’m willing to bet you do,” Joyce said, smiling. “You’re terribly transparent. I wanted to see what you’d do if I snuck up to Chad, and you burned.”

  “Really?”

  “Positively burned. I’m majoring in psychology and I’m always making little experiments on the side.”

  “It’s too bad your father doesn’t make a little experiment on your backside,” Paula said.

  “Oh, Poppa—he’s a mediocrity. He’s one of these timid people, too timid to enjoy life, afraid to take a chance. Something like you.”

  Afraid to take a chance. Paula repeated the words silently.

  “That’s why I know he didn’t commit these murders,” Joyce said in a detached voice as if she were talking about a species of beetle. “I’m using psychology, of course, to find out who did.”

  “Oh?” Paula said.

  “So far, no luck. Though as far as psychology goes, I’m the best bet in the group.”

  “Oh?”

  “Of course. I am both passionate and controlled, ideal type for murderers who murder for good sensible reasons like money. Am I boring you?”

  “Hardly,” Paula said. “After all, I’ve never talked to an ideal murderer’s type before, let alone a mere murderer.”

  “Well, you must have talked to a murderer,” Joyce said sensibly. “But it’s terribly hard to figure out who’s it. If we only knew the reason why Floraine was murdered we could make some eliminations. I think there are quite a few in the group who are capable of murder but for different reasons.”

  “Even me?” Paula said.

  “Of course. But you’d have to have an emotional reason—like protecting your child or something. But you haven’t any child, so I think I’ll eliminate you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Crawford might murder someone just for fun and games. He’s the exalted type, nothing fazes him. Maudie Thropple might murder for revenge. She’s vindictive and not sure of herself. Both Mr. Goodwin and Gracie Morning might commit murder for money.”

  “Mr. Goodwin?” Paula said, smiling. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, look what he’s going through already for money! I think tagging along behind Mrs. Vista would be harder than taking a chance on the gallows. As for Mrs. Vista, I find her in a way the most puzzling of the lot. I think she might kill someone and yet could convince herself afterwards that she hadn’t done it at all. She and Mr. Crawford would be the dangerou
s types. And Chad—well, Chad takes everything out in talking and he’d probably talk someone to death.”

  “Indeed?” Paula said coldly. “And Miss Seton?”

  “I don’t believe Miss Seton would murder anyone, not at her present stage of development. Her conflict is a sexual one—she is seeking a mate. I think she has her eye on Poppa, but of course I can’t allow that.”

  “Can’t you?” Isobel said from the doorway. She came into the room, her eyebrows raised in Joyce’s direction.

  Joyce was not at all embarrassed. She said coolly, “All women of your age are unconsciously seeking mates.”

  “That’s very nice to know,” Isobel said. “I’ll have to watch myself, won’t I?”

  “Oh, no,” Joyce said. “Let yourself go, of course. But not in Poppa’s direction.”

  “I have never looked at your father with anything but kindly and tolerant amusement.”

  “Well, a lot of women do start out like that and then work up. I took a course in H. L. Mencken.” Joyce smiled benignly at the two women. “I hope I’ve cleared up a few things.”

  “You smug, officious child,” Isobel said.

  “My professors say I’m very objective for my age,” Joyce said. “I can’t help observing things accurately. I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  She went out with a cheerful wave of her hand which Isobel found very exasperating.

  “Imagine,” she said slowly, “imagine seeking a mate when she goes along with him.”

  “Perhaps that’s why she does it,” Paula said with a wry smile. “She’s a wise child.”

  “What was she talking about?”

  “Murderers and murders and her own peculiar talents in that field.”

  “Oh.” Isobel turned away, frowning. “She seems rather mature along certain lines, doesn’t she? But perhaps she has to be to make up for Poppa’s immaturity.”

  But Paula was no longer listening. Her thoughts had returned to Chad and the haunted unhappy look came back into her eyes. Perhaps the girl is right, she thought, and I’m afraid to take a chance, I’m too timid to live.

  Mrs. Vista sailed into the room with a pile of plates and a virtuous look in her eye.

  “Where is that snippet?” she demanded. “She was supposed to be setting this table.”