The school is strangely quiet today. Amy Peterson and one of the other teachers have taken a large group of students to a state music festival. Margaret Wentworth is left with the stragglers from her own classroom and Amy's. She hands out dittoed maps of the United States, instructs them to fill in the names of the states and their capitals. “Without your books, children. Let's see how well you know this grand country of ours.” Ms. Mitty is herself a tad hazy when it comes to Iowa and the Dakotas, but knows she can look it up. After all, isn't that what reference books are for?
The alarm sounds at 11:21. At first, Ms. Mitty (her filly, Marvelous Margaret, is poised at the gate for that all-important first Derby attempt) thinks it's the starting bell. Then, perhaps, an early reminder of lunch? But then the intercom squawks a message from the principal: “This is NOT a practice drill. I repeat, NOT a practice drill. Please take your students and evacuate the building in an orderly fashion."
Ms. Mitty insists that the children put their maps and pencils away, then makes sure they are formed into orderly lines. She opens the door. The corridor is filled with thick black smoke. “Oh my,” she says, thrilled at the opportunity for her two worlds to mesh. Today, the country will learn that Margaret Wentworth is made of finer stuff.
"Hands, children,” Ms. Mitty says, clasping the tiny palm of the little Saunderson girl. “We're going to make a crocodile. Everybody take the hand of the person in back of you and don't let go until I say so.” Coughing, she leads the wobbling line out and towards the stairs.
Smoke clogs Ms. Mitty's lungs and stings her eyes. She is aware of leaping flames. She stumbles on the stairs. Someone tugs on her skirt. She can't see him but she recognizes the voice. Her bête noire, Basil Bates.
"Miss Wentworth, Miss Wentworth, we're going the wrong way! The door is at the other end of the hall!"
"Nonsense!” Ms. Mitty is outraged. How dare he interfere with her heroic rescue! “I'm taking you children upstairs. That's where the fire escapes are.” The hook-and-ladder captain's eyes are filled with admiration as she hands her students, one by one, into his strong arms. Save yourself, he begs her. The flames will be upon us any second now. But Ms. Mitty is firm. Not until all the children are down....
"Besides,” she adds, “most of the smoke seems to be down here. The air will be clearer up there."
Basil is frantic. “No, it won't. Smoke rises."
Does it? Science has never been Margaret Wentworth's strong suit. Still, it won't do to admit that before the children. “End of the line, Basil,” Ms. Mitty manages to choke out. “Follow me."
Basil disappears. Or at least his voice ceases. Ms. Mitty struggles up the stairs to the landing, a turn, then up another. The children are like dead weights behind her. She is crawling now and see, the air is fresher here near the floor. She drags the children, every one precious to her, to a classroom with an open door, props them near what seem to be the windows, opens one. Too late to find the fire escapes; she'll just have to drop them into the nets. “Help,” she croaks. “Help us.” The fire engines are just turning the corner.
As she loses consciousness, Margaret Wentworth sees the thick smoke form itself into thirty-six-point black headlines: GALLANT TEACHER SAVES CLASS FROM FLAMES.
When she wakes up, she is in a hospital bed. The patient in the next bed has the evening news on, and a solemn anchorman is intoning: “The death toll continues to mount in the tragic fire at the Timmons Free Elementary School. Police and fire officials are puzzled as to why veteran teacher Margaret Wentworth led her charges to the second floor and away from a safe exit. Six children were critically burned, another six died of smoke inhalation.” The announcer's voice turns fatuous. “Among the survivors is ten-year-old Basil Bates, shown here with his friend Edgar Belliveau. Basil and Edgar managed to make it out the front door of the school and alert authorities as to the whereabouts of the missing children and their teacher. Firemen say they might never have found the group otherwise."
The scene cuts to an on-the-spot reporter. “How's it feel to be a hero, Basil?” But Margaret Wentworth mercifully loses consciousness again before she can hear the little twit's reply.
When she wakes a second time, a tall blond doctor is standing at the end of her bed. He takes her vitals, asks how she's feeling. Margaret Wentworth's eyes fill with tears.
The doctor pats her hand sympathetically. “The police want a few words with you, but I told them you weren't ready yet."
Margaret Wentworth nods. It's too painful to speak. The doctor pats her hand again. You've been through a horrible ordeal, little lady. He looks at her meaningfully. You and I both know that the full story will never come out, that the wolves are always waiting in the wings to criticize. It's highly probable that Basil and Edgar, those two ruffians, set the fire themselves so they could bask in the spotlight. But why ruin young lives, even heinous ones? You, my dear Ms. Wentworth, will take the blame. But it won't be for naught. I've been searching all my life for a woman like you, tough, dauntless, dare I say noble? This summer, I plan to leave my lucrative practice and go to darkest Africa. The need for medical attention hasnever been greater there. Might I dare ask, might I dare hope, that you—the incomparable Margaret Wentworth—will accompany me?"
(c)2007 by Brenda Joziatis
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THE PROBLEM OF SUICIDE COTTAGE by Edward D. Hoch
A scroll winner in the 2006 EQMM Readers Award competition, Edward D. Hoch has provided countless hours of entertainment for this magazine's readers and editors. The Dr. Sam Hawthorne series, to which this new tale belongs, gives us a tantalizing glimpse of the beloved series sleuth on his eightieth birthday. More than thirty years after the first Dr. Sam case appeared, it's not only the masterful impossible-crime plots but the series characters that continue to surprise us.
It was a sunny day in 1976 and plans were well under way for Dr. Sam Hawthorne's eightieth birthday party. He'd grumbled about all the fuss, preferring to spend the day quietly, but that was not to be. His visitor was a familiar one, always a joy to see. “You tell stories to old friends but never to me. Now it's my turn. You promised me one for your eightieth birthday and this is it. I want to know about that summer of nineteen forty-four."
He smiled and said, “I usually supply a bit of libation to go with my stories. How about a glass of sherry?"
"I'd prefer scotch if you don't mind. Scotch and water would be fine."
* * * *
It was an exciting summer (Dr. Sam began, after he'd supplied the refreshments). The Allies had stormed the French beaches on June 6th, landing in Normandy at dawn following an airborne attack further inland. Despite heavy casualties, the landings were successful and a second wave of troops quickly followed. Back home in Northmont things were relatively quiet as I awaited the birth of our first child. Annabel's baby was due in late July and she'd already decided if it was a boy it should be called Sam Junior. I wasn't too happy with the idea and it was still under discussion.
Annabel had turned over the daily routine at the Ark to her assistant when her pregnancy reached the eight-month mark in late June, though she insisted on remaining on call for any unusual veterinary problems. I readily agreed with her suggestion that we wait out the final month at a cottage on Chester Lake just a few miles from town. It was peaceful there, though I still made a few house calls and my nurse April knew how to reach me in an emergency.
Chester Lake was a placid body of water about a mile wide and five miles long, named after an early landowner in the area. I'd spent a summer there in 1929 when I'd solved a mystery involving some people who vanished from a houseboat and it was there, at the age of 33, that I'd fallen in love for the first time. Her name was Miranda Grey and I often wondered what became of her.
We'd barely unloaded the car for our month-long stay before Annabel started kidding me about her. “Too bad we couldn't have rented the cottage where Miranda Grey stayed with her aunt and uncle. I'll bet it would have brought ba
ck fond memories."
All I could give her was a sigh. “I should have known better than to tell you about Miranda. It only lasted a few months."
All the small one-story cottages at Chester Lake were similar, and as soon as I entered the one we'd rented I was transported back to 1929. The entire front half of the house was given over to the living room with a small fireplace. There was a single bedroom in the left rear. The kitchen and bathroom occupied the right rear, with a back door leading out to the gravel driveway. If there were more than two people staying overnight someone had to sleep on a foldaway bed in the living room. It was a perfect place for the two of us since it discouraged unwanted visitors.
"I guess it's like a second honeymoon,” Annabel said, settling in. “Or it would be if it weren't for this bump.” She patted her stomach fondly and gazed up at the living room ceiling. “I wonder what that hook is for."
"Probably a hanging plant. I doubt it's for any erotic activity."
"Sheriff Lens mentioned there'd been some burglaries up here last summer. If we catch a thief we can hang him by his wrists."
"You should be thinking only nice thoughts these days,” I suggested.
"Yes, Doctor."
"And the sheriff did tell us they'd installed new locks on all the cottage doors this season."
That was when we heard a knocking on the screen door and I went to answer it. A smiling man of about my age stood there, wearing bathing trunks and an undershirt. “Dr. Hawthorne, you probably don't remember me."
"Well, I—"
"Raspin, Jerry Raspin. I was one of the trustees at Pilgrim Memorial Hospital a few years back."
"Of course!” I told him, because I did remember him then. He had a real-estate business that had been fairly profitable before the war.
"Probably didn't recognize me without my suit on. I have the cottage next-door."
"Come in,” I urged, trying to make amends for my hesitation.
He followed me in, as Annabel hurriedly wrapped a robe around her bulging belly. “I hope I'm not intruding, Mrs. Hawthorne,” he said. “I'm your neighbor for the month of July. The wife and I have the next cottage."
"How nice,” Annabel said.
"We may not be here the entire month,” I explained. “My wife is expecting our first child in a few weeks."
"Well, congratulations! That's great news.” He helped himself to a seat on our sofa.
"Do you take a cottage here each summer?” Annabel asked.
Jerry Raspin nodded. “The wife likes it, and there's nowhere else to go with this gas rationing. I sure hope the war ends soon. My old clunker of a car won't last much longer."
"The news is pretty good,” I told him. “The Allies are advancing on all fronts."
Raspin nodded. “We have a son who just got drafted. I'm hoping the war ends about the time he finishes his basic training."
Annabel glanced out the side window. “Your cottage looks pretty much like ours."
"They're all about the same on this side of the lake. Yours has one distinction, though. The regulars here call it suicide cottage."
"Why, for heaven's sake?"
"Each of the last two summers there's been a suicide here. In ‘forty-two it was an elderly man and last year it was a young woman whose husband had been killed by the Japanese in the Solomon Islands. A terrible tragedy!"
"I remember both of them,” I said, “but I hadn't realized they were both in this same cottage."
"I'm sure you two will break the jinx,” he replied with a smile, trying to make light of it.
Annabel snorted. “Two instances hardly qualify as a jinx, Mr. Raspin. I'd call it a coincidence."
About that time he must have decided that his visit had been ill-timed. “I'd better be getting back. We'll talk again."
I saw him to the door and then returned to Annabel. “Can we stand a month of him in the next cottage?” she asked.
"I remember that his wife was nice. I met her once at a hospital function when he was a trustee."
"All this talk of suicide—"
"There'll be none here this month. I promise you that."
* * * *
On the night of July 4th the Chester Lake residents marked the occasion with a display of railroad flares that ringed the shoreline. A few cottages even fired skyrockets and small firecrackers, but these were hard to come by in our area. The following morning was a Wednesday that year, and the day dawned bright and sunny. Already before breakfast there were children splashing in the water. Annabel watched them fondly from our porch.
"One of those could be our Sam a few years from now. We'll have to come back here again.” Later in the morning she even went wading herself, with me standing nervously behind her in case she started to fall.
We had a telephone in the kitchen and every morning I checked in with April at my office. But it was a quiet July and the most serious case she had to report was one of the Walker boys being stung by wasps. He was one of those kids who were always getting into trouble and I remembered last summer when he'd gone missing from his parents’ cottage and been feared drowned at Chester Lake. After a day of dragging the lake they'd found him hiding in a tiny crawlspace behind the kitchen sink.
The following Monday I drove Annabel in to see her obstetrician, our old friend Lincoln Jones, and he reported that all seemed to be going well. “Another two weeks at most,” he predicted.
Back at the cottage we became acquainted with another of our neighbors. Mrs. Spring was a petite woman in her late forties who'd been a nurse in Boston. She lived two doors down from us, in the opposite direction from Jerry Raspin and his wife. “I'm right next to Judge Hastings,” she told us, pausing in her stroll along the water's edge to chat. “You know the judge, don't you?"
I did know Hastings, a popular man around town, but hadn't realized his cottage was next to ours. I'd seen no activity there since we arrived. After Mrs. Spring had continued on her walk, I said to Annabel, “If the judge is really next-door I should call on him to say hello. I'll take a walk over there."
At first I thought my knocking at the door would be met only by silence, but after the second knock I saw movement behind the curtains and Judge Hastings himself opened the door, as tall and formidable as he appeared on the bench. “Well, Sam Hawthorne! What brings you here?"
"Annabel and I have had the cottage next-door since the first of the month and I only now found out you were here. I didn't see anyone around and assumed it was empty."
He seemed hesitant about inviting me in, and finally compromised by motioning toward the porch chairs. “Maud hasn't been feeling well,” he explained. “That's why you haven't seen us out."
I chose one of the two Adirondack chairs and settled into it. “I hope it's nothing serious. If she needs a physician, I'm right next-door."
"No, no.” He rejected the possibility with a wave of his hand. “It's not serious. Is this your first summer here?"
"The first since our marriage. I visited here years ago, but somehow with my practice I never had time for a real vacation till now. Annabel's expecting our first child this month and I wanted to be with her as much as possible."
"There's nothing like a first child, Sam. I can still remember when Rory was born, though it's close to thirty years ago now."
"How's he doing?"
"Air Force lieutenant. We're very proud of him."
"You should be. He's helping to win this war for us."
The door opened, surprisingly, and Maud Hastings came out to join us. She was a decade younger than the judge, but just then she seemed older. She wore no makeup and she'd put on weight since I last saw her. I suspected her problems were more emotional than physical. “Hello, Doctor,” she addressed me with some formality. Perhaps she thought her husband had summoned me in my professional capacity.
"How've you been, Maud?"
"Better. I'm on my feet again, at least."
Judge Hastings seemed as surprised as I was by her unexpected appe
arance. “Shouldn't you be resting, dear?"
"I've had enough resting to last through the summer. I want to see what's going on out here."
"Nothing much. Sam and his wife have the next cabin."
She glanced over at it. “Suicide cabin."
"Didn't know that when we rented it,” I told her.
Judge Hastings cleared his throat. “We were here last summer when that young woman took an overdose of sleeping pills. She couldn't go on after her husband was killed."
"How'd the first one die?” I asked. “The old man."
"Shot himself. The place was a mess after that. Owner had to hire people to wash away the blood and repaint the living room."
"Any doubt about either of them?” I asked, because that was the sort of question I always asked.
"Sheriff Lens was called out both times, but the cottage doors were locked and bolted from the inside."
"Windows?"
"Those too, Sam. Don't worry, you'd have heard about it if there was anything suspicious."
About then I saw a familiar figure strolling along the rocky shoreline. It was Jerry Raspin, my new friend from the previous week, and I assumed the woman with him was his wife. When he saw us on the porch he changed his route and walked over. He nodded to me and then addressed the judge's wife. “Good to see you up and about again, Maud. Feeling better?"
"Very much better, thank you."
"This weather would make anyone feel better.” He turned to me. “Dr. Hawthorne, this is my wife, Susan."
I smiled and shook her hand. “I believe we met at one of the hospital functions some years ago.” She was a large woman, about her husband's size, and I imagined they made a matching set on the local social scene, where Annabel and I rarely ventured.
Our mailman, a little fellow named Cally Forbes, had appeared at the next cottage, the one rented by Mrs. Spring. Since the cottage mail in this section was usually left in a row of boxes on the street, I assumed he must have some sort of special-delivery item for her. “I'd better go see what Cally wants,” I decided, when his knocking on the door yielded no response.
EQMM, July 2007 Page 17
