by Andre Norton
Irene opened the door this time. With no expression on her face she stepped back to let me enter.
“I suppose you're to watch me. I'd never have taken you for a policewoman.”
‘I'm not. I came to see if I could be of help.”
She shrugged. “Have it your own way. I'm not running away. I told the truth—Stuart is really sick. Come and see for yourself.” Her fingers closed in a vise grip about my wrist as she tugged me across the disorderly bedroom to a small alcove. Three-quarters of the space was occupied by a crib.
In a huddle of blankets lay a little boy, squirming restlessly, his face flushed, his hair in rough peaks. One arm lay across a panda bear, and he was breathing in gasps. Though I had had small experience with children, I could see he was ill enough to worry over.
Beside him Irene lost her fumbling awkwardness. She was sure, alert, efficient, as she adjusted a vaporizer to send a cloud of aromatic steam across the crib.
“All these colds! I wish we could get away from here, go where it is warm. It isn't fair!” She stood over the vaporizer, solicitude and weariness at war on her haggard face. “If we only had a fraction of Aunt Emma's income we could go South. But—” She rounded on me. “None of it comes to us—not one red cent! They can't say that it does. She told Charles three months ago, before her accident, that she was cutting him out of her will.” Irene bent over the restless child, touching his face with a gentle finger, putting both panda and arm back under the covers.
“Is Dr. Bains still here?” she asked.
“I think so.”
“He must take another look at Stuart. But I'm not going to send him to the hospital. Stuart would be frightened to death. Oh!” Her fist hammered on the crib rail. “I wish I knew what to do! What can I do?”
Before I could move, she sped to the door and was out and gone. By the time I followed she was up the hall, hammering on Miss Austin's door.
A chill draft swept around my ankles. Remembering the child, I closed the door. Very much at a loss, I went back to the crib. The steam continued, and I thought he seemed to be breathing easier. His head turned as he uttered a little sighing moan.
Surely Irene should be back with the doctor. I looked at the door, just in time to see a bit of paper slipped under it. Once more I crossed the room, but when I opened the door the hallway was empty. I stooped and picked up the note.
The paper was smooth-edged on three sides, the fourth raggedly torn. It might have been the end page of a book. Across it, in a pointed script I had never seen before, were two lines.
“Keep your mouth shut. Or you and Stuart will be sorry.”
The name Stuart had been underlined so sharply there was a tiny hole in the paper.
A genuine threat? Or could Irene have planted it herself to lift suspicion? At any rate, Mark was going to see this. If the younger Mrs. Frimsbee had planted it, my silence now might lead her to a false and betraying move. If she had not—why add to her worries? I tucked the note into my jacket pocket just as she came in.
“Dr. Bains will be here in a minute—”
“Did you see anyone in the hall a few minutes ago?”
She shook her head impatiently. “I wasn't in the hall. I went into Aunt's room. No, I didn't see anyone.”
But Irene had been in the hall herself, I thought. So very easy for her to plant the note. I must show it to Mark as soon as I could.
12
I thought that Stuart Frimsbee was seriously ill, so I was surprised to hear the doctor reassure Irene that by tomorrow the boy should show definite signs of improvement. But he had other news also.
“I wish that all was as well with Miss Austin.”
“Is she very ill?” I asked.
He glanced at me. “Ill? We are waiting now for the ambulance. The sooner we get her to the hospital and under oxygen, the better.”
“Then there is something wrong with her heart after all,” Irene commented.
The doctor frowned. “Miss Austin is one of those individuals, unfortunately only too common in her generation, who will not seek any medical help until it is almost too late. As far as I can determine, she must have experienced warning symptons for some time. But did she see me or any other physician? No, she dosed herself with herbal remedies of her own concoction. It's a wonder she didn't poison herself.”
Those last four words hung in the air, and he must have realized at once how unfortunate under the circumstances his complaint had been, for after giving a few instructions, he left.
Irene pulled the blankets straight over her son. There was a brooding expression on her face that suggested she was not thinking of Stuart. The hasty comment of the doctor lingered in my own mind. Could it be a key to the puzzle? If the answer was yes, it only proved again what a bad judge of character I was.
To conceive of Miss Austin committing murder and covering her act with bald accusations of Irene was, to me, sheer insanity. Though motive, knowledge, and opportunity had all been hers.
The shriek of an ambulance siren could be heard even through the Abbey walls. Going to the door, I witnessed Miss Elizabeth's departure, accompanied by the doctor, a nurse, and Maud. Preston Donner brought up the rear, his face now as nearly gray in tint as his coat
“She's gone.” Irene spoke for the first time since the doctor left. “I wish—I wish she had told the truth!”
My fingers closed over the note in my pocket. Now was the time to locate Mark and hand that over. Irene had drawn a chair close to the crib and settled in it.
“I'll be back,” I told her. I did not know whether that was a promise or a warning.
Anne Frimsbee had not appeared, neither had Leslie. If they knew of Miss Austin's departure, they had not chosen to witness it.
I hurried down the stairs. There was no one in the wide lower hall. The silence was thick, as if this was now a deserted house. I was startled as one of the detectives appeared.
“You are looking for someone, miss?”
“Colonel Rohmer.”
“Sorry, he left about twenty minutes ago.”
“Do you know where I can reach him?”
“You can try headquarters.” He gave me a number, which I kept repeating as I went on to the back hall and the phone.
I dialed, and to an answering masculine growl, I repeated my request for Mark, to be disappointed a second time. Should I now ask for Lieutenant Daniels? Leslie, coming into view, made me change my mind.
Even her polished surface had been scratched by the events of the past hours. Lines showed on her face. Instead of a timeless thirty, she could now be thought a care-ridden forty.
“Do you know what time it is?” she demanded. “Twenty to eight. I've called the market and they've agreed to deliver—for an extra fee. Reena's just walked out. She's locked in her room and won't talk to anyone. If we're going to have anything to eat tonight, we'll get it ourselves. And—” She leaned against the wall. “I'm beat. Another day like this one, and I'll take to my bed also.”
“They've taken Miss Austin to the hospital.”
“I saw her go. With Preston and Hanno tagging in Hanno's car. We needn't expect them back soon. Irene with Stuart?”
Perhaps I was overwrought, ready to read meanings where they were not intended. But I sensed contempt in the intonation of that last question. Almost as if Leslie was rather cynically amused at Irene's preoccupation with her child. I must try not to imagine things.
“You say you ordered groceries?”
“Yes. We're lucky the market was still open. Goodness knows, I'm not the world's best cook, but I can boil an egg. You willing to lend a hand? There—” She was interrupted by the sound of a bell. “That must be the delivery now. Come and see what we were able to get.”
I helped Leslie check the bags and boxes. And I noted my companion paid strict attention to prices, totaling up the bill expertly. Money, I suspected, was one of the subjects Leslie did not find amusing.
“I'll go up and see what Irene wants,�
�� I offered as Leslie lined up the purchases on the table.
“All right,” she replied absently, reading the directions on a box of biscuit mix.
In spite of the light now on in the hall gloom seeped up through the house. It was chilly, too. I shivered, wondering if any check had been made lately on the furnace. Perhaps I had better ask Leslie about that.
Irene was not alone. Seated on the chair pulled close to the crib was Anne. She was talking in a low voice, but as I entered the half-open door, their heads jerked apart
“What is it, Miss Jansen?” Anne's veneer of friendliness had cracked.
I found myself using an apologetic tone which I immediately resented.
“Miss Lowndes has had some groceries delivered and is going to prepare supper. Do you need anything special for Stuart?”
“I would be grateful for a cup of warm milk,” Irene returned. “Mother Frimsbee, you should at leave have a cup of tea—”
But Anne was not about to agree.
“No, my dear. I had quite a substantial tea with Miss Jansen earlier.” Subtly she so accused me of being heartlessly occupied with food, when finer souls, such as herself, arose above the material. “My nerves are in such a jangle now I could not eat a bite. This is too exhausting. All those questions from the police— simply stupid, most of them. But Irene, my dear, Stuart is sleeping. Why don't you run down while he is resting well and have something yourself? You can't go without food. I shall stay right here until you return.”
Perhaps Irene might have accepted that offer, though her reconciliation with Anne surprised me. But there came a rap on the door and Sergeant Blake looked in.
“Mrs. Irene Frimsbee—I would like to speak to you—”
As Irene stood up, the sergeant continued. “The lieutenant wants to see you downtown right away.”
Irene stiffened. But she had gained control after her confrontation with Miss Elizabeth.
“I have a small child who is sick. I cannot leave him.”
“The lieutenant talked to Dr. Bains. He's sending over a nurse to stay with the boy.”
“Irene, my dear,” Anne said, “I'll stay with Stuart And the sooner you settle this nonsense, the better. Elizabeth was, of course, completely irrational when she made those absurd statements. You can easily prove that once you discuss things with the lieutenant. Remember that the important thing is that all this must be kept from Charles.”
Irene nodded. Her face was blank as she pulled the plaid coat out of the closet and put it on, tied a scarf over her head. Her actions showed the determination of one committed to a course of action.
“Let's go,” she said. “The sooner we get there, the sooner I'll be back.”
She said no goodbyes but marched out a step or two ahead of her escort. Anne remained by the door, seeming to listen, until the sound of a slam reached us. Then she favored me with one of those stretches of lips she apparently considered a smile.
“The warm milk for Stuart, Miss Jansen—do you suppose you could bring that up later? There is a pill he is supposed to take with it in about forty minutes.”
“Yes.” I was still surprised at Irene's abrupt departure. She must have gained new support from some quarter. I paused by the phone on my way to the kitchen, for the second time, only to hang up before an answer when I heard the faint creak of a door above. I had no intention of speaking about the note if Anne could hear me.
The kitchen was a haven of warmth after the growing chill of the halls, and Leslie was busy. She slid a pan of biscuits into the oven as I entered. “What now?”
“The police have asked Irene to go downtown. Dr. Bains's nurse is coming to look after Stuart.”
She closed the oven door. “So they want to question Irene again? But why, in the name of heaven? That poor creature couldn't have gotten up nerve enough to dispose of Miss Emma—let alone arrange that very unfunny coffin joke. She's a mouse all through—even the police ought to see that”
“Miss Austin seems to think she had done both.” I wanted to see Leslie's reaction. After all, she knew Miss Elizabeth much better than I, and whether Miss Austin was indeed capable of lying so convincingly.
“Miss Elizabeth Austin lives with the conviction that she is always right, but it is amazing how many times in the past she has been wrong. If the police have picked Irene for their number-one suspect, I have lost all confidence in their collective intelligence.”
“Who do you think is guilty?”
Leslie used the can opener on a jam-pot lid. “Our Roderick was a black sheep and must have picked up any number of enemies during his career. As for Emma Horvath, well, there Miss Elizabeth herself had an excellent motive. This ghastly house is a white elephant. She can't sell it by the terms of her father's will, and the taxes are going up every year. There's very little money to keep it up. You don't think she makes enough out of us, her ‘guests,’ to cover expenses, do you? But she does get a good slice of Emma's own private holdings, and with that she doesn't have to worry. She must have reached a time in life when she is tired of worrying. No, Miss Elizabeth could well have hurried Emma along. She knew plants and herbs. Then that switch in bodies spoiled her game by making the police suspicious of Emma's death. I'll wager she could willingly have added Anne to her bag for exposing it.”
“But Roderick—who would switch bodies? Miss Austin simply could not have done that.”
“I agree. In addition to the physical impossibility, that bit is out of character for her. Consider this, however: suppose Roderick's death had nothing to do with the family at all. But the murderer saw a good chance—because of the private funeral—to cover his tracks. Two murders, but two different murderers. Then all the plans spoiled by Anne Frimsbee. It's perfectly possible. Do you like cheese?” She was slicing an orange-yellow wedge.
“If it's the sharp kind. But I wonder about your solution. A little improbable—”
“Oh, improbable things do happen now and then. You knew Colonel Rohmer before he turned up here, didn't you?”
I had been expecting that question for what now seemed days and I was prepared.
“I knew him slightly, years ago. But I had not seen him since—until I came here.”
Leslie opened the oven to look at the biscuits. “He's very attractive.” There was an interrogative note in her comment. I chose to ignore it. “But he's not police. He's in a hush-hush department, Gordon said. So it's my guess Roderick was mixed up in something important. He must have been to bring Rohmer into this.”
“And that bolsters your theory?”
“Doesn't it? Do you see anyone in this house who might otherwise draw such attention?”
“I have an over-vivid imagination, but I have learned to distrust it. Your theory is too much like a story plot.”
Leslie laughed. “I forgot that you and Theodosia are in the same trade. You are critical of my plotting sense?”
“It has always been my experience that the more fantastic and complicated the plot, the less well it works out. However, I make no guesses—”
“You don't have to. The plain facts are unbelievable enough. Though I will believe Irene Frimsbee is responsible only if she confesses it publicly.”
The tinkle of a bell drew our attention to the old servants’ call board on the wall. Leslie wiped her hands on her apron, the first out-of-character act I had ever seen her perform.
“Front door.”
“Prbably the nurse.”
“I'll let her in. Watch those biscuits, will you?”
She was gone. I set a pan of milk over a very low flame and checked the biscuits again. Then I warmed a cup in hot water and dried it, ready for the milk. Except for the sound of water bubbling in a pan of vegetables, and the loud ticking of a clock, the kitchen was very quiet.
I poured the milk into the cup and took another peek at the biscuits. Leslie must have escorted the nurse upstairs. It seemed as if she had been gone an unusually long time. If I waited any longer, I would have to reheat the m
ilk. I took the precaution of turning off the oven, and started up the back stairs.
There was no sound in the house. I might have been the only person under that roof. The eerie feeling of loneliness persisted as I climbed the stairs. Before I reached the upper hall the phone began to ring with a shrill demand. Setting down the cup, I hurried back to answer.
“Is Miss Jansen there?”
Mark! I felt a warmth of relief as I answered. “I have been trying to get you.”
“What happened?”
I no longer worried about an eavesdropper. Suddenly it was imperative to tell him about the note and I did so in as few words as possible.
“Then the lieutenant sent for Irene,” I concluded.
“Yes, I know.” Mark sounded tired. “Who's with the child now?”
“Anne Frimsbee. And the nurse Dr. Bains sent has just arrived, I believe.”
“I'll be out as soon as it is humanly possible.” A click. He had rung off.
Now the milk would have to be reheated. The kitchen was still deserted, and I was just in time to rescue a pan of cauliflower on the verge of boiling dry. Where was Leslie?
On impulse I went to the front of the house, peering into each dark room I passed. The breakfast room, that large dining room, the library, and lastly, and unwillingly, the parlor. No sign of Leslie.
When I returned to the kitchen, my feeling of being alone in the house grew menacing. It was all I could do to keep from running upstairs and pounding on bedroom doors. But I rewarmed the milk before I made the climb. With the cup in hand I stepped inside the still-ajar door of Irene's room.
“Here's—” My voice trailed into silence.
The chair, still pulled close to the crib, was empty. And the cot had been stripped bare. Both Stuart and his blankets were gone!
Anne must have taken the baby to her room for some reason, I told myself. I ran down the hall, and this time I did hammer on a door.
“Mrs. Frimsbee! Mrs. Frimsbee!”
There was the click of a turned key and her petulant voice reached me.
