by Andre Norton
“Of course my sister agrees with me! You are to open it—and at once. I never heard such nonsense.”
“No!” Miss Elizabeth’s protest was a hoarse croak, which apparently did not reach through the now nearly open door.
There were four standing there inside. Anne Frimsbee was directly before the coffin. Her daughter-in-law had retreated a little, as if to get as far from the scene of the dispute as possible. Hanno Horvath scowled at Anne. To him she paid no attention—she was gazing only at the man by the flower-banked coffin.
I caught up with Miss Elizabeth just in time. She had one hand out to the door frame for support, but she swayed. For a moment I thought she was about to faint. But she was still fully conscious—in her face a kind of horror, as if some disaster she had fought valiantly to prevent was now upon her—from which there was no escape.
Though I had no wish to remain, I could not desert Miss Elizabeth in her present state. I tried to catch Hanno Horvath’s attention. But he, as well as all the rest, was intent upon Anne and the coffin.
With a small whisper the polished wood and padded silk was raised. Anne Frimsbee, with an expression of complacent triumph, looked down into the interior.
The old legend of Medusa might have been enacted then, for she tensed, and, under her careful makeup, a greenish tinge showed. Her eyes, now wide with shock, were set as if she could not in truth look away.
Miss Elizabeth cried out and slumped, so I had only time to push her into a chair, or her dead weight might have carried me with her to the floor. As I supported her I still watched Anne Frimsbee, wondering if she were about to go into hysterics. The look of her face was like none I had seen before.
There was a sharp exclamation from the man who had opened the coffin. Now Hanno and Irene came closer. Nor could I resist advancing a step or two. Anne’s continued horror-stricken paralysis was too compelling.
Exposed to our view were the head and shoulders of a body, but by no means that of an elderly woman.
Rather a youngish man, black hair tousled about his livid face, a look of surprise frozen in eyes and mouth, lay there. And he was wearing the coat of an early nineteenth-century naval uniform, that bright blue coat disfigured on the breast by an irregular brown stain.
“My God!” The words were jolted out of Hanno. He swept a tall basket of white roses out of his path, with force enough to send it spinning across the floor. “How did this happen?” he demanded of the attendant, who in turn was staring at the contents of the coffin in open stupefaction.
“It’s Roderick!” Irene’s voice scaled up into an eerie shriek.
As if that sound had brought her back to life, Anne Frimsbee whirled. Her hand struck full across her daughter-in-law’s face with a sound almost as sharp as a gun-shot, the blow sending Irene back. As the younger woman stumbled and fell, Anne took a single step in her direction, the green, sick look erased from her face by a crimson flood of wild fury as she shouted:
“Shut your damned mouth, you fool!”
Then, as Irene treid to crawl away, tears beginning to stream down her bruised face, Anne clutched at rags of self-control. She glanced around, saw our attention was on her, and faced us, her chin up, and all the arrogance she could assemble coloring her voice.
“That—is—not—my—son—Roderick. Roderick is dead!” She hissed, before she turned and walked out of the room. We stood, like actors frozen in a tableau, until there came the sound of a distantly slammed door.
Miss Elizabeth moaned and I went to her. Since Irene still sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying, her hands cupping her face, and since neither of the men had moved, I was impelled to action.
“Please.” I glanced first to Hanno, who at least looked as if he had muscles needed in this crisis. “Can you help me get Miss Austin back to her room? I’m afraid she is really ill.”
With a muffled ejaculation, he strode over and picked up the old lady, carrying her as if she weighed nothing, taking her upstairs as I hurried along behind. When he laid the now seemingly unconscious woman on her bed, I asked:
“Hadn’t the doctor better be called?”
“Yes. I’ll do it. Call the police too. Since there has been a murder—apparently—”
I blinked. He had been quick to assess the meaning of that stain on the blue coat. But who—and how—and certainly—why?
Hanno went downstairs, heading, I supposed for the phone. I was left alone to unfold the quilt lying at the foot of the bed over Miss Elizabeth. One question to the fore of my mind—Roderick? Who was Roderick? I searched my memory of Theodosia’s outline of the situation, and I did not remember any Roderick—dead or alive—
5
I drew a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. Miss Elizabeth lay crumpled, her breaths coming far too fast, and frightening to hear. How long before the doctor could get here? As for that I had seen downstairs—so I had not been deceived by any bush, shadow, or half-hidden garden statue on the night I had been introduced to the Abbey! I had seen that figure in the garden after all. But who—and why? I shook my head as if in so doing I could shake away those questions.
Now I took Miss Elizabeth’s restless hands—which were plucking at the cover over her—into mine. Perhaps my steady hold did act as a calming agent. Her head, which had also been turning from side to side as if still to deny all which had just passed, lay quiet now, and her breathing deepened and slowed. I might have thought her asleep, had I not had the disturbing feeling that once or twice I had been spied upon from beneath those heavy eyelids.
“Roderick.” I repeated the name to myself. Who was Roderick? Mrs. Frimsbee’s son—but I had heard him called Charles—
Her violent reaction—certainly that proved she lied in answer to Irene’s spontaneous identification. I was sure not even the best of actresses could have counterfeited the extreme shock Anne had registered.
Emma—for the first time I remembered Emma Horvath. With her coffin now tenanted by this strange interloper Roderick, where was Emma? My over-stimulated imagination began to play with several grisly possibilities.
Miss Elizabeth must have known something. She had tried hard to prevent this very discovery; again, why? Could she be responsible for the substitution? I found that impossible to believe. I did not think any situation, no matter how desperate, would lead Elizabeth Austin to commit an act so closely approaching desecration. Nor would she have the physical strength to carry it through. Yet the eldest of the Austins had wanted the coffin sealed for burial before the funeral. This must have something to do with the early-morning collapse I had witnessed. Could she have seen the substitution? If so, why had she not protested?
Whatever had happened, I was very sure Miss Elizabeth had acted for what she believed to be the best. She had not kept silent for any personal reason. Therefore—if I were questioned I would choose my answers carefully—
Apart from the desire not to be drawn into a family scandal which was no business of mine, I was determined not to talk. Miss Elizabeth was now, I believed, lying here gathering her forces, trying to rebuild shattered defenses, against a time when she must hold fort to her secrets. I knew myself only too well the pain of broken reserves, how one writhed when there were breaches through which one’s inner emotions might be betrayed. No, I would volunteer nothing. Any questions I would answer as tersely as possible.
I wished I dared offer Miss Elizabeth that reassurance, but I thought that to speak now, to force her out of her hiding, would undo all the good of these moments of rest she was being allowed. Then my dilemma was solved by Maud and the doctor entering together. As she passed me, the maid said in a low voice:
“The police are downstairs, miss. They want to talk to everyone, they said.”
I had the usual private citizen’s reaction to that news the law wanted to talk to me: a feeling of sudden nervous guilt even when my conscience was clear—and at this moment that was slightly clouded. I was somehow convinced they might see straight through any
evasions I might try.
“Severe shock is never good at her age.” The doctor addressed me as if I were in charge. “I shall give her a sedative and then make sure they don’t try to question her—not today anyway.”
“A nice cup of tea. Miss Elizabeth likes a nice cup of tea when she is upset-like. Herb tea, it is. Miss Elizabeth gets it special—she says it’s better than medicine.” Maud broke in.
The doctor nodded. “Yes, try that. And later perhaps some of Reena’s soup. Then, if she rouses in the night, one of these pills. But don’t talk to her. Discourage it if she tries to discuss what has happened. We don’t want her dwelling on that.”
That, I was sure, was the last thing Miss Elizabeth would want to do. I would wager that she was not any longer as exhausted as she seemed, and that the mind behind the netted hair and forehead fringe was already at work, trying to find a solution to some problem I could not begin to understand. Perhaps the doctor knew this patient well enough to deduce that also. For he reiterated that Miss Elizabeth was not to be left alone, not to miss taking the pill. As he was about to leave, the door was flung open with force. Anne Frimsbee stood on the threshhold.
How long had it been since that scene in the parlor—an hour? It seemed more. But in that time she had aged nearly a generation. Yet in spite of that surface crumbling, she blazed with determination as her eyes swept from the doctor to the quiet figure on the bed. She attempted to come closer, but the doctor quickly thwarted her.
“Let me see Liz!”
“Not now, Anne, and I mean that!” There was iron in his voice. “She must not be disturbed. That shock was very bad for her.”
“The shock?” Her tone dismissed that as nonsense. “Liz must listen to reason. Do you know what they’re saying now, do you, John Bains? They’re saying that—that body is Roderick! He’s dead—you know it—all of us know it. He died in that car crash in Italy two years ago. Just because he made some mistakes and people hounded him, he had to go abroad. And he died and was buried. You saw the telegram yourself, don’t deny it. I want Liz to help me make those—those police understand it’s all a vicious lie! That fool Irene yelling it out like that—when she knows it wasn’t the truth. Liz—” She raised her voice. “You get up and come down. Maybe they’ll listen to you and stop believing lies—”
The doctor’s hand was on Anne’s arm, and I saw him give her a shake.
“Be quiet! She can’t hear you—I’ve given her a sedative. She is asleep and will be for hours. Under no circumstances is she to be disturbed. Understand that, Anne? I will tell the police the same thing.”
“The police!” Her face flushed almost purple. “I’d like to know who called them.” Her outstretched fingers curled into claws. “I’d like to get my hands on whoever did it. I tell you one thing, I’m not going to listen to any more lies!” She turned and rushed away and I heard a door down the hall slam.
The doctor shook his head. “It is Roderick, of course,” he said almost to himself. “And good riddance. If only he had not turned up here as he did. One thing is true—Miss Emma and some friends managed to cover up for that young thug before. It can’t be done this time. I’m only sorry for Miss Elizabeth. She must not be disturbed.” Now he spoke directly to me, and for the first time it seemed to register with him that I was a stranger. Quickly I explained my position in the house and added I would do anything I could. To my rather shamed relief he shook his head now.
“As a comparative stranger, Miss Jansen, she might find you disturbing, I will suggest that Maud, with Reena’s help of course, take care of her.”
Maud smoothed down her apron. “Yes sir, that we will!” There was pride in her voice. “Miss Elizabeth ain’t going to see nobody unless you say she do, Dr. Bains, I promise that!”
So I could not seek any refuge in the sickroom. On the other hand I was not going to voluntarily insert my head into the lion’s jaws. I was on my way back to my own room, when Leslie Lowndes came quickly up the stairs, a mink coat flung back on her shoulders. Her blond hair was uncovered and she was breathing hard.
“Miss Jansen, can you give me a sensible answer as to what in the world is going on? They called me back from the office, and now some police sergeant tells me to stay until I am asked questions. As if I am going to sit down there waiting for what I don’t know! What has happened?”
I outlined the events of the immediate past and her annoyance vanished, in complete surprise.
“But what a bizarre—unbelievable thing! Roderick Frimsbee—after all these years! Oh, yes, I heard of the family black sheep. He was caught drug-running or something a few years back—but the family had disowned him before that. Miss Emma used to speak her mind about his horrid reputation and how hard it was for dear innocent Charles to live it down, being in the service and all. But he was dead—at least that’s what they said—killed abroad in a car accident. And if he’s in the coffin now—where is Miss Emma?”
“I imagine that is what the police are trying to find out—or one of the things. Roderick was apparently shot—”
“Shot!” she echoed and shook her head. “But things like that simply do not happen to the Austins—”
A thick-set man of middle age appeared at the foot of the stairs to look up at us both. He carried the authority of the law in every plane of his heavy, jowled face.
“Now, Miss Lowndes.” He addressed Leslie. “Weren’t you told to sit and wait in that room?”
“I was ordered around in my own home without any explanation.” She flared. “You’d get a lot farther with reasonable people if you showed a fraction of common sense, Sergeant or Inspector or whatever you claim to be. I’m neither a moron nor a child.”
“In the room downstairs—if you please.” He looked as if he meant to escort her every step of the way and then take other measures to insure she stayed there.
“You, too, miss.” He consulted a notebook. “You are Mrs. Irene Frimsbee?”
“No.” Perhaps my denial was too vehement. But I had had enough of the Frimsbees and the Austins. “I am Erica Jansen.”
“Yes.” He consulted the notebook again and nodded. “Well, the lieutenant wants to see you, too. Downstairs, if you please.”
Leslie went without any other further protest and I followed. We were herded into the breakfast room, and had no chance to exchange comments on the weird happening of the afternoon, as a young patrolman took a seat by the door and so remained an ever-present warning.
Leslie threw her mink into another chair, lit a cigarette, and went to stand by the window, staring out into the black and white of the neglected garden. I was hungry, the after-effect for me of any emotional upset. So my speculations hovered around as to when we would be released and perhaps allowed to leave the house in search of food. All my contact with police procedures came mainly from fiction. I am devoted to crime novels—mainly of the old-fashioned house-party-butler-in-the-pantry-all-right-with-the-village-gossips school. Which was not much use to me in judging what was going to happen next.
Were we all under suspicion of shooting, or perhaps using a knife, to bring that black sheep of the Austin clan his present resting place? Had any woman strength enough to effect the exchange of bodies by herself? What had Miss Elizabeth taken part in, or witnessed at two in the morning?
I did not want to think about that, and I hoped I would not inadvertently betray it in my questioning. It was Miss Elizabeth’s own business, and none of mine. The dragging minutes crawled by, and I felt we had been there for hours. Then the stolid man stood once more in the doorway.
“Miss Jansen, please.” He summoned me.
Leslie glanced at me, her annoyance plain. I was divided between the relief of my wait being over, and my apprehension. Thus I found myself for the first time in the library of the house, a solemn room paneled in the darkest of oak, one huge, stained-glass window behind the mammoth desk—giving the impression of a church and altar. From behind the desk, a man arose to introduce himself as Lieutenan
t Daniels.
He was polite and mannered, and because of that, even more intimidating. I sat down in the chair he indicated, and answered the routine questions of name, permanent address, and the reason for my being here. A young man, half in the shadows, took it all down in shorthand.
“Then you have only been here since Sunday, Miss Jansen?”
“Really less than that.” I told of my trip with Theodosia.
“You moved in Sunday morning, you left before noon with Mrs. Cantrell, you returned with her yesterday. Had you any acquaintance with the Austins prior to your arrival here?”
“No, I met Miss Elizabeth Austin for the first time Saturday night—also Mrs. Irene Frimsbee. Her mother-in-law later.”
“I see.” Lieutenant Daniels leaned forward. His voice was friendly, encouraging. “Was there anything which happened Saturday night which was out of the ordinary?”
I wavered. Should I tell him of what I had seen in the garden? I had not mentioned it to anyone. To do so now might put me into the category, as far as the lieutenant was concerned, of a seeker of notoriety, eager to make myself important. Yet—to keep quiet—I could not decide. But some change of expression must have given me away.
“There was something—what?”
No use to try and conceal it now. Even my momentary dithering might have already raised some suspicion. I told my tale as badly as I could—hoping he would not believe it was a flight of afterthought imagination.
“You did not mention this to Mr. Donner, nor to Miss Austin. Why?”
“Because it was too fantastic. There are statues in the garden—it was night and the wind blew the shrubs around. I could have seen something and just thought it was a naval officer of the 1800s. Who would believe a real one was lurking in the garden?”
